Angel in the Trenches
by The Yankee Countess
Summary: Sybil/Tom Secret Santa 2014 fanfic for mimijag. Tom Branson does go to war. The reasons and events leading to him being there will be examined and explained, after a mysterious encounter with a face from his past...
1. Chapter 1

_MERRY CHRISTMAS & HAPPY HOLIDAYS SYBIL/TOM FANDOM! Here is my S/T Secret Santa 2014 fanfic for...**mimijag!** TA DA! Tis' I, fair Mimi! I AM YOUR SECRET SANTA! :oP_

_Here's her prompt: _Tom is leaving for war after all; farewells...or not.

_My head immediately began to spin as I thought of ideas to how to tell this story, and suddenly, the ideas grew to the point where I realized, "I can't keep this as a one-shot!" (I know, I know, this is breaking the rules, but like a certain lady and chauffeur...I'm a rebel) ;oP So starting now, on Christmas Eve, and leading all the way up to New Year's Eve, I will be posting a chapter a day to tell this story of how Tom came to be where he is...the events that led to it...and what might happen afterward. Yes, there will be angst, there will be drama, but there will also be romance! And it is Christmas after all...so maybe there will be a miracle or two?_

_Ok, enough babbling; **MIMIJAG**, thank you for this prompt! "Joyeux Noel" to you, and again, HAPPY HOLIDAYS S/T FANDOM! _

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><p><span><strong>Angel in the Trenches<strong>  
><em><strong>by The Yankee Countess<strong>_

Chapter One

_Christmas Eve, 1917  
>France<em>

There would be no moon that night. The clouds were too thick. Instead of stars shining down, snow fell from the heavens, heavy and white, already creating a thick blanket on the trench floor. Under any other circumstance, this would be a clear annoyance; their feet would be both wet and cold. But perhaps because it was Christmas…the men paid little mind.

Tom sighed and brought his fingers to his mouth, breathing hot air over them and rubbing them together as he stood huddled in his corner of the trench. At least there wasn't a wind like there had been two nights ago, when the cold was so bitter it made one's eyes sting. Tom glanced across from him at the shivering lad who stood nearby, also rubbing his fingers for warmth. Without a second's thought, Tom dug his hand inside his jacket, and pulled out the small bottle of whiskey that had come just yesterday from his brother—an early Christmas present and very much appreciated.

"Marcus," Tom murmured the boy's name, who looked up at him in surprise. Without a word, he silently passed the bottle to the lad, whose large eyes only seemed to grow even bigger. "Go on," Tom told him. "Just a few sips to warm you up."

The boy's face lit up, brighter than the moon ever could on this cloudy night, and he took the bottle, thanked Tom for his generous offer, before taking a few big swallows…and coughing loudly at the taste, but still maintaining his thankful grin all the same.

"I…I…" he was still coughing a bit, and Tom reached out to pat the lad's back. "I…I've never had whiskey before!"

Tom's eyebrows rose at this, but then again, he had to remember just how young Marcus was. _Too young_. But then…weren't they all?

Thinking of Marcus as a "boy" wasn't an exaggeration. The lad had turned eighteen sometime that autumn, and the day after his birthday was when he received his summons. Tom had never asked Marcus what his thoughts were about that; was he like some of the other star-eyed soldiers in their unit? Proud to be serving king and country and eager to face the enemy? Or was he every bit as terrified as the rest of them? Did he try to put on a brave face when the envelope was handed to him, even though inside, his head was screaming?

"Easy," Tom murmured, reaching to take the bottle back as Marcus took a few more gulps, coughing each time. Still, the lad couldn't stop grinning, and for that, Tom was glad. Christmas cheer was few and far between in the trenches.

"Thanks," Marcus said, a hiccup immediately following. Both of them chuckled while Tom took a few sips himself.

"Simmons!"

Marcus stood to attention at the sound of his name, though it was simply another private, charged with delivering the post. Tom stood to attention as well, but more so because he was curious (and eager) to see if something was for him amongst the envelopes his fellow soldier brought.

"Simmons," the delivery man repeated, and without another glance, dropped a small parcel into Marcus' hands. The other soldier then turned to Tom, and Tom held his breath, his heart stilling…and then sinking as the man shook his head, before moving on.

_Three weeks…_

"It's from home…" Marcus murmured in awe as he gazed down at the parcel in his hands, holding it with such delicacy, as if it were a soap bubble ready to pop.

Tom shook off his own disappointment and forced a smile on his face, taking another sip of his whiskey before urging the lad to open it. "Go on…let's see what Father Christmas sent you," he teased.

The boy looked up at him and a bashful grin spread across his face, before he gripped the parcel and started ripping back at the paper, his expression like that of an eager child on Christmas morning. The box finally open, Marcus reached inside…and gasped as he pulled out a long, gray scarf. He wasted no time, wrapping the scarf around his neck, and pulled out a sheet of paper from the parcel, his eyes scanning it and reading it over and over, a smile breaking across his face one minute…while the next, his lower lip trembled as if he might cry.

Tom didn't say anything; he even turned his head slightly to give the lad some privacy, quietly drinking his whiskey while Marcus read and re-read his letter.

"Mum made this," he broke the silence at last, drawing Tom's attention back to the gray woolen scarf that now hung around his neck.

He smiled and nodded at it. "It's very fine," Tom told him, meaning it and despite his own melancholy, feeling happy for the lad.

"She said she wanted me to have something 'practical'," Marcus chuckled, glancing once again at his letter, though Tom didn't miss the stray tear that fell down his cheek.

"She sounds very wise," he murmured, his thoughts now going to his own mother, and wondering what she was doing right now. Was she preparing for tomorrow's dinner? Taking what money she had and fixing a fine roast that would be the envy of all on their street? Or had she spent the entire day in church/ Was she there right now, lighting a candle and praying to the Holy Virgin for his safe return?

"Oh!"

Tom's attention was drawn back to Marcus as he reached inside his parcel and found another treasure, this time an envelope that was sealed. "What's that?" he asked, unable to hide his curiosity.

Marcus looked at the envelope…and then at the letter from his family, then back at the envelope. "Mum says it's from…" he paused, and Tom noticed that the lad seemed to be shaking. "From…from Judith."

Judith?

Marcus looked back at the envelope once more…wet his lips…and then with trembling fingers, brought them up to the envelope and started to tear it open, but slowly, as if he were trying not to rip the paper more than was necessary. When the task was finally completed, Tom couldn't help but let out a sigh of relief, and then waited for the lad to pull whatever was inside the envelope out…though he simply stared at it.

"…Well?" Tom asked, drawing the lad's attention to him. "Aren't you going to read it?"

"I…I…" Marcus was shivering again, though it wasn't because of the cold.

_I know that look,_ Tom thought to himself, a sad smile lifting at the corners of his mouth. That was the look of someone in love.

Marcus swallowed…and then finally removed the letter from inside the envelope, unfolding it with trembling fingers and carefully reading the delicate writing. Like the last time, Tom tried to give the boy some privacy as he read, yet it was more difficult as he found himself drawn to Marcus' expressions…and found himself envying the lad just a little too.

_Three weeks…_

"Oh my God…"

Tom looked at Marcus as the boy lifted something in his hand, something that had been inside the letter…and noticed that it was a red curl, with a green ribbon tied around it.

Marcus looked up at Tom, then back at the lock of hair, before lifting his eyes once more to Tom's and whispering, "…she loves me."

Tom's eyebrows rose at this; the boy seemed surprised at this news. "That's good, isn't it?"

Marcus was dumbfounded. "I…I didn't think Judith even knew I existed!" Marcus declared, before looking back at the letter once again. "But…but she says she misses me, and…and…and that she prays every day and every night for me to return home safe…and…and that she's my sweetheart!"

The joy on the lad's face was moving, as well as contagious. Despite his earlier disappointment, Tom smiled back at the lad, and even reached over to clap him on the shoulder. "Well, congratulations!" he cheered, lifting the whiskey bottle and taking a swig, before handing it back to Marcus to drink.

The boy shook his head; he was far too enraptured with his letter. Though he did lift his eyes momentarily, and asked out of the blue, "do you have a sweetheart, Pvt. Branson?"

Tom winced; both at the boy's question, as well as the title he had been given. He didn't like this reminder that he was fighting in a war for a country that he didn't think of as his own, and a government he currently despised.

"Pvt. Branson?"

"'Tom', Marcus—you can call me 'Tom' when it's just the two of us talking."

Marcus blushed but nodded his head.

"And to answer your question…" Tom paused and took a sip from his bottle. "I..." he paused again, thinking about how to answer. "It's…it's complicated, actually."

Marcus looked confused. "I don't understand?"

Tom sighed, trying to think how to explain his situation, and whether or not he wanted to explain it, but was stopped short when their captain called them all to attention.

"We just received a telegram! Enemy forces are moving right now to aid their dwindling numbers, which means we need to hit them hard again and we need to hit them NOW!"

Marcus gasped and turned back to Tom. Tom's jaw simply locked and his fingers gripped the barrel of his gun. The concept of "Peace on Earth" was foreign when it came to war.

"Take your positions and be ready!" the Captain commanded, and up and down the trench, men started loading their guns. A rumble could be heard in the distance; was that thunder? Or explosions? Suddenly, without warning, something flew into the trench further down, and a shout went up from one of the men, as a blast went off, hurdling both Tom and Marcus backwards.

"Bloody hell, they know!" the Captain swore, before taking out his pistol and raising it high over his head. "CHARGE!" he shouted, and a cry went up from the men in the trench, as they took to the ladders and started to climb. One of the men grabbed hold of Marcus' hand, hauled him to his feet and pushed him towards the ladder. "Go! Go!" he urged, and Marcus scrambled up the ladder, his face pale and full of fear, but he held tight to his gun and joined the rest of the men in their battle cry as he ran forward across the battlefield.

Tom did not join in their cry, but he too climbed up the ladder and was running across the field, though he did his best to keep his eyes on the boy, making the boy his mission rather than firing blindly at enemy trenches.

Explosions erupted all around them. Bombs burst and mud splattered the air around them. Men screamed, several falling as an array of bullets cut through the air. Others fell but weren't so fortunate; they were either tangled in the barbwire or were reaching desperately for something that once been attached to them, screaming all the while for a stretcher bearer, but those lads were few and far between, because the second they lifted their heads, bullets flew their way.

It was madness. And the heavy snow that was covering the ground no longer shown white.

Marcus fell to his knees and Tom stared in horror, thinking the boy had been shot. But he realized that instead that Marcus was trying to reload his gun, and had dropped to the ground to do so.

"Get up!" Tom shouted.

"My gun is jammed!" Marcus gasped.

Tom shook his head. "GET UP!" he ordered, grabbing the lad by the collar and hoisting him to his feet. Yet the second they were both standing, another explosion erupted around them and sent them flying in different directions. Tom hit the ground hard on his back, gasping as he felt the wind knocked out of him. He coughed and sputtered and rolled over onto his stomach, pushing the mud and snow out of his eyes and trying to see through the smoky haze.

He stiffened at Marcus' cry.

Whipping his head around, Tom looked everywhere, trying to see the boy, trying to find him…and he did…tangled in the wire.

"Tom!" Marcus groaned, the wire around his leg was cutting through his uniform and blood was soaking the material. "AH!" he cried, attempting to sit up but the motion only caused the wire to cut even deeper.

Tom scrambled to his feet and rushed over to Marcus. "Don't move!" he hissed, which was easier said than done, when fire seemed to be falling from the sky all around them. But Tom didn't hesitate, he reached for the knife at his belt and started to cut through the wire, just doing what he could to get the boy free. "STRETCHER BEARER!" he roared, while he cut at the wire, cursing that it wasn't going fast enough, swearing when as bullets flew past them. Several times he had to stop and throw himself on top of Marcus to protect the lad, as well as to keep himself from being shot.

"It's…it's too dangerous out here!" Marcus groaned. "Go…go, save yourself—"

"I'm NOT leaving you here," Tom growled, his knife still cutting what it could. He looked at the boy and saw the fear in his eyes, the fear and knowledge that at any second, death could come for him. "I'm going to get you out of this," Tom told the boy, his eyes unwavering. "I'm going to get you out of this…and you're going to go back to your Judith and give her a proper kiss."

Despite the chaos all around them, Marcus did smile at that. Tom went back to work, cutting the wire, dodging bullets, praying that another explosion wouldn't happen, to let him at the very least free the boy. _All men are entitled to one miracle, aren't they? Especially at Christmas? Let this be his, please…I've already had my miracle, let Marcus have his…_

"AHHH!" Marcus cried as finally, the last of the wire was cut and his leg was freed. Though the wire had done it's damage, cutting through the flesh so far, that Tom wondered if it had struck bone. Where the FECK was that stretcher bearer?

Tom shook his head, and without another word or thought, bent down and hauled Marcus up onto his shoulders, hoisting his body across them and with a grunt, started retreating back to the trench, his only thought on getting Marcus to safety, getting him to—

A cry filled the air as Marcus' body left Tom's shoulders, falling with a loud thud just a few feet away from both Tom and the trench.

Tom fell to his knees…and with confused eyes, looked down at his chest…and saw blood seeping out.

"Tom? TOM!" Marcus shouted, but Tom's vision was already blurring, and gravity had already taken hold of his body, and he was plummeting forward, both to the ground and to the welcoming arms of darkness.

"Tom! TOM!"

"_Tom…"_

Marcus' voice had changed. He was hearing a different voice…softer…huskier…

"_Tom…"_

It was like a warm lullaby, lulling him further into darkness…a siren's song that he couldn't ignore…

"_Tom…"_

Tom forced his eyes to open, the voice sounding so close, so clear, as if it were just over his shoulder. He wasn't lying on the ground anymore, but he was standing…and he was standing in the middle of the trench…and the snowy night sky was gone, in its place a still and gray, cloudy sky.

And there was no one else around. Tom's brow furrowed as he looked through the fog that surrounded him, trying to find Marcus, the Captain, anyone from their unit…

Nothing.

He was alone.

He looked down at his chest, his hand flying to where he had seen the blood, to where he had been struck…

Dry.

Nothing.

"_Tom…"_

He whirled around at the sound of the voice again. A whisper, but still familiar.

"_Tom…"_

The voice was changing, growing softer, but less huskier.

"_Tom…"_

"WHO ARE YOU?!" he cried out into the fog. _"WHERE_ ARE YOU!? SHOW YOURSELF!"

Silence. Not even a crow.

The sound of footsteps drew his attention to his left, and Tom peered through the haze as he recognized the shadow of a figure approaching him. His right hand went to his belt, but his knife and pistol were gone. He looked back at the figure, and heard a whisper on the wind, "Don't be afraid…"

Tom swallowed. He knew that voice. "Who are you?" he called out, trying his best to calm his heart.

The fog began to lift…and Tom's eyes widened as a face he knew once not so long ago, appeared before him.

"_W-W-W-William?"_ he stammered in disbelief.

Pvt. William Mason smiled and saluted him. "As you were, Mr. Branson."

_To be continued..._

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><p><em><span>QUICK NOTE!<span> I was lazy and chose not to research an actual battle that may or may not have taken place on/during Christmas Eve of 1917...sorry for the bad history! But besides that, I hope you "enjoyed" this first part! Please share your thoughts! THANK YOU FOR READING!_


	2. Chapter 2

Getting this one in just before midnight on Christmas night. Sorry for the delay, but also thank you to those who have read and reviewed, and **mimijag**, I'm glad you like it so far-I hope you will continue to enjoy it :o)

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><p>Chapter Two<p>

Tom blinked. William? William Mason? William, who he had worked beside at Downton, William, who he had shared long talks with, who would ask him various political questions, and who he would listen to sigh about his unrequited love for Daisy.

William…who was…was…

"You can say it," William assured, his smile soft and understanding.

Tom swallowed. "I…I don't know if I want to," he answered honestly.

William chuckled at that. "Well, if it helps, I'm not a 'ghost'."

It didn't, really. What would help is Tom being assured this was all some dream, some whiskey-infused hallucination combined with a hard knock to the head. But how would that then explain his surroundings? And really, if this were a dream, why would William be the one to come visit him?

He felt his stomach start to sink…

"Don't be afraid…" William murmured, taking a step towards him.

Tom took a step back. "W-w-where…" he coughed to calm his voice and looked around. "Where am I?

William looked around and then shrugged his shoulders, before turning his eyes back to Tom. "A trench."

Despite his growing fear and worry, Tom did roll his eyes at William's answer. "I know that, but where is everyone? And…" icy fingers of doom began to crawl up his spine. "…And why is it so quiet?"

William took a few more steps towards him. "War doesn't exist here," William answered.

There was a tremble in Tom's voice when he next asked, "W-w-where is h-here?"

William gazed at him for a moment with a slight tilt of his head. "Let's go back to a previous question, one you didn't ask, but one that was clearly written across your face." Tom wasn't sure he wanted to hear those answers, not to mention he wasn't sure which question William meant, because there were a great many that had been flying through his head.

"I'm not a ghost," William repeated, then paused and took a deep breath. "In fact, I'm…an angel."

Tom blinked just as he had done before, assessing what he had just heard.

An _angel?_

"Like Gabriel," William continued. "Though not as 'majestic looking," he chuckled.

An angel. William was…an angel. Though there was nothing "different" about his appearance; he still looked the same as when Tom had last seen him (and weren't angels supposed to have wings?)

However, who was he to deny William's word? After all…the man was dead! And yet here he was, in the flesh…_talking_ to him! And that only could mean one thing…

_I'm dead._

"Easy, Mr. Branson, easy…"

William was suddenly by his side, his hands on Tom's shoulders, kneeling to keep Tom from sinking into the mud.

Tom looked at the mud around them, and then looked at the bleakness of the trench and the rest of his surroundings. This couldn't be heaven. Oh God, did that mean…?

"No, Mr. Branson, this isn't _that_," William assured, reading his thoughts.

But that didn't do much to comfort him. If this wasn't hell, and he still very much doubted for it to be heaven, then there was only one other answer, one that had been instilled him by the nuns and priests who ran his school when he as a boy.

Purgatory.

"Mr. Branson…" William's voice brought him out of the haze of his thoughts and somehow managed to hold his attention. "I'm here to guide you."

Tom's brow furrowed. "Guide me?"

William nodded. "That's what we do, angels. We're messengers, but we also provide guidance when it is needed."

_I needed guidance long before today_, Tom thought to himself. "I don't understand…guide me how?"

"Well…that depends on you."

Tom's head was spinning. Depends on him? What did that mean?

"Mr. Branson—"

"'Tom', William," Tom corrected. "Please, this isn't Downton and…and I think at this point, we can dispense with such formalities."

William smiled at that and nodded his head. "Tom," he began again. "Explain to me why you're here."

Tom's brow furrowed. "Why I'm here?"

William nodded. "I know we rarely talked about the War, and Mr. Carson kept such talk at a minimum so as not to distract us from our work, but if and when the topic did arise…I have no memory of you ever speaking in favor of it."

Tom swallowed, unsure how to answer at first, simply because the sad truth was that this war, which William had been so eager to join and fight, was also responsible for claiming his life. Still, even now as he faced the reality of his death, Tom wasn't ashamed of his beliefs (even if he was a walking hypocrite), and knowing William valued honesty, he sighed and nodded his head in agreement. "No, I never spoke in favor of the War. I think it's a rich man's fight, one group of powerful men trying to show their dominance over another by sending boys to fight their battles."

William's eyebrows rose at this, but he didn't say anything to contradict Tom or argue otherwise. "So it's safe to assume then that you were conscripted rather than volunteer?"

The lump in Tom's throat felt even bigger than before. _How do I answer that? Yes? No? I was conscripted, but…at the same time, I did volunteer?_

"What led to this moment?" William asked, tilting his head patiently to one side. "What brought you, Tom Branson, to this war?"

Tom's throat now felt suddenly dry and he shifted on his feet a bit uncomfortably. "Don't you already know? Being an angel I would think you…well, that you know everything."

William did chuckle at that. "Not exactly, no," William laughed. "I know…enough; but I don't know everything, and I would like you to tell me."

"So you can help 'guide me', is that it?"

William simply nodded.

Tom let out a long sigh and ran his hand through his hair. Where should he start? How much should he reveal?

"Start at what feels like the beginning," William patiently answered.

The beginning. What feels like the beginning…

And suddenly he knew exactly where…and when…it had all begun. Or if he had to pick an exact moment (because he honestly believed it had been coming along gradually even before then) this would have been the time and place…

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><p><em>January 5 (Twelfth Night), 1914<br>Downton Abbey_

Music and the sounds of laughter and conversation carried down the corridor to Downton's library, the fire the only light filled the room. Still, it was enough to provide Tom with the light that was needed to examine his Lordship's collection.

Nine months he had been working in service at Downton Abbey, and he still couldn't get over the offer Lord Grantham had given him to borrow books from his library. Maybe the Earl was much more progressive than Tom had expected? Not that his Lordship didn't strike Tom like a "bad employer", far from it; Tom had been working in service since he was fifteen, and he had encountered several "bad employers" in that time, men and women would never dream of allowing someone like "the chauffeur" (or any servant, really) into a fine room like a library, much less borrow books. And based on the way his colleagues spoke about his Lordship, it was clear they admired the Earl and thought highly of him (and not simply in the way servants were "expected" to think highly of their employers). There hadn't been much of a chance, but Tom hoped that perhaps, he and his Lordship could engage in some political discussion? Perhaps on a drive to Ripon or York? Not that Tom was lacking for someone to speak to on such topics…

A smile curled at the corners of his mouth as he thought about her. She certainly was a surprise, and a very pleasant one at that. Her curiosity, her thirst for knowledge was both contagious, as well as exciting. Tom loved recommending books for her to read, getting pamphlets or ripping out newspaper articles for her and passing them along when he had to drive her somewhere. And recently, during the autumn months, Lady Sybil began to visit him in the garage, popping in while he was working and just…sitting on a vacant bench, casually asking him a question about the task he was working on, before eventually leading up to something interesting she had heard spoken or read, and wanting to know what he thought.

Tom felt he had made friends at Downton amongst the staff, but…if he were honest with himself, the one he felt closest to was his Lordship's youngest.

He smiled to himself as he recalled her entering the Hall that night, dressed in her famous (or perhaps "infamous") frock which he had caught a glimpse of back in May, just after he had started working there. He chuckled as he remembered the shocked faces of her family as she moved down the stairs, her chin lifted proudly and her eyes gleaming with mischief. It was the first time for many of the staff to see Lady Sybil in her "famous frock", and if it were possible…she looked even more beautiful tonight than she had when he had first seen her in it.

Of course…that was nothing compared to how she looked when she was smiling and laughing as she twirled and danced practically every dance, making sure no hall boy was without a partner. And he watched from where he stood, purposefully hiding off to the side, torn between the desire to join her and be her next partner, and the fear of the fool he would make of himself if he even tried. In the end, it was his fear that got the better of him, and so when he was certain no one would notice, he snuck down to the library, and here he found sanctuary amongst his Lordship's books. He was much better at reading than dancing anyway.

"Oh! Here you are!"

Tom whipped his head at the sound of her voice, practically jumping out of his skin in surprise. "Jesus!" he swore, his face burning red as he realized what he had said and to whom he had said it to. "Sorry, I…beggin' your pardon, milady, I…I didn't mean—"

"Oh gracious, no, no, I'm sorry," Lady Sybil apologized, though she was giggling too, and looking a bit sheepish. "I didn't mean to startle you."

Tom swallowed and then found himself smiling (it was impossible not to smile around her). "It's alright," he murmured…and then for the sake of good humor added, "just please don't tell the others; I'll never live it down."

Lady Sybil giggled at this, and then glancing back down the corridor, fully entered the library. "Why are you in here instead of at the ball?" Based on her tone, he could see she was genuinely curious and not trying to make fun.

"Um…" he felt rather embarrassed to admit this. "I um…I'm not much of a dancer, to be honest."

Lady Sybil's eyes widened at this. "What? I find that hard to believe."

She was teasing him, but it was light-hearted and if anything, she seemed to take "offense" at his lack of faith when it came to his dancing abilities.

"It's true," he chuckled. "Two left feet. And I'd be even worse with all those 'posh dances' you're having out there."

_"'Posh dances'?"_ Lady Sybil repeated. "The orchestra played music to popular Yorkshire country dances—"

Tom shrugged his shoulders. "Well that's all well and good to anyone from Yorkshire, but being an Irish lad, it's all 'posh' to me."

Lady Sybil pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes, as if she were assessing a challenge. And then with a smirk that caused Tom to gulp, she marched right up to his side and without any preamble, took his right hand in her left, and placed her right hand at his waist!

"It's not as difficult as you think," she told him. "I'll lead, you follow."

Tom still hadn't gotten over the shock that Lady Sybil was…well, that she was touching him in a much more intimate way than ever before (the only time they ever touched when was he helped her in and out of the car, and even then they wore gloves). But here she was…standing just a few inches away from him, holding his bare hand in hers and pressing her other palm against his waist.

"Ready?"

No, Tom thought to himself. But Lady Sybil simply nodded her head in time to the music that was playing down the corridor, and then started to move, instructing Tom on which foot to move. "Don't think too hard, just follow! You'll catch on easily enough," she assured him.

He would? He wasn't so sure. Especially when there were other things to distract him, like…how close they were standing to each other, and the scent of her perfume…and the way the fire made her dark hair glow a rich auburn color…

"I…I don't think this is such a good idea, milady," he mumbled.

"Of course it is! You're doing so well!"

He doubted that. They had only moved in a small circle, and he thought it was a miracle that he hadn't stepped on her feet. "No, I…not that I object to you leading…you're a natural when it comes to that," he teased, which did make her smile, as well as blush. "But…well, how does this help if I'm supposed to the one leading anyway?"

Lady Sybil did pause then, her hands dropping away, and Tom couldn't deny, he missed her touch.

"Hmmm, you're quite right," she murmured to herself. Then, once again without warning, she gave a little shrug of her shoulders and this time took his left hand in her right, and guided his right hand to _her_ waist, before settling her left on his shoulder and bringing herself even closer than before. "Alright, _you_ lead."

If he had been tongued-tied before, it was nothing compared to how he felt now.

"M-m-m-me?" he stammered.

Lady Sybil nodded. Lord, how could she be so calm? Of course, she had been dancing the entire night with different partners and that was all he was, of course; just another partner…

"Branson?"

He looked down at her and felt his breath catch. He had never realized just how blue her eyes were…

"Just remember what I did and try to repeat those steps."

He swallowed and nodded his head, more as a way to break himself from this strange stupor he had found himself in, but after taking a deep breath…began to do as she instructed, leading the dance and trying his best to follow the steps she had shown him.

"Ouch!" she gasped when he stepped on her foot, but she shook her head when he started to apologize, and gripped his hand and shoulder a bit tighter to prevent him from stepping away. "It's alright…as I say to Gwen, no one hits the bullseye with the first arrow." She smiled at him and encouraged him to continue…and as if in a bit of a trance, he did…holding his breath and counting in his head to the rhythm of the music, looking down every so often at his feet and watching them as they shared their strange little dance around his Lordship's library.

As the music neared its end, Tom did feel himself grow in confidence. He had managed not to step on her feet or lose his balance or anything so embarrassing.

"See?" Lady Sybil beamed. "You _can_ dance!"

Tom wasn't entirely convinced, but still, he appreciated her faith. "Well, it helps when one's teacher as the patience of a saint," he teased. "I don't think I would even do half as good with any other partner."

His words were a simple compliment, and yet her cheeks grew very pink and her lashes fluttered down in a bashful manner, and Tom felt a strange swirling in his stomach, like a million butterflies all flapping at once.

It was Lady Sybil who spoke first. "Come, we should return to the ball; I would like to have at least _one_ 'official' dance with you," she cheerfully ordered, and it wasn't until much later that Tom realized they were still holding hands at that point _(it had just felt so natural…) _

And he would have missed the little surprise that was hanging over their heads in the library entrance if Lady Sybil hadn't caught sight of it and gave a little, "Oh look!" drawing Tom's attention to the mistletoe that hung above their heads.

His face reddened as he looked back at her, and Lady Sybil was blushing too, but also grinning innocently, before surprising him more than he thought was possible (though really, with Lady Sybil, that was easy to do), when she leaned up on her tiptoes and again, without preamble, brushed her lips against his cheek.

He stared back at her, completely dumbfounded. Later he berated himself for how he must have looked; no doubt his mouth had been hanging open, making him resemble a codfish. And his reaction no doubt caused her to bite her lip and then look down at the ground, before putting on a smile in an effort to hide any embarrassment. "You don't have to kiss me back," she quickly told him under her breath. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, I apologize. Just…well…the Christmas season…" she tried to explain, though her face was growing redder by the second.

Was it his desire to spare her from this embarrassment? To spare them both from this moment of awkwardness?

Or was it simply because when she said he didn't have to kiss her back, he wanted to shake his head and assure her that no, despite the fact that this would be deemed "most improper", kissing the daughter of his employer, and was by all means a case for dismissal and quite possibly imprisonment…he _really_ wanted to kiss her.

And he did. In a similar manner as she had done, leaning down (though perhaps a bit slower than she had done) and letting his lips brush her cheek.

…Was it his imagination? Or…had she sucked in a breath as he had done so? Not out of fear or discomfort, but…desire?

No, no, he mustn't think like that, he really, REALLY shouldn't think like that!

"Merry Christmas, milady," he murmured, breaking the silence at last, and purposefully easing himself away from her (more to avoid the temptation of leaning in and kissing her again…and not just on the cheek).

Lady Sybil opened her eyes, her lashes fluttering as she looked up at him, and her breathing, he noticed, slowly returning to normal. She continued to blush, but she did smile and murmur back, "Merry Christmas, Branson."

Yes, as Tom would recall in the months and years that followed…if he had to pick one moment, it would be that one.

That was the night he realized as he lay down on his cottage bed, with visions of Lady Sybil dancing and laughing in her "famous frock", that not only had he given her a kiss on the cheek, but he had also given her his heart.

_To be continued…_

* * *

><p><em>QUICK NOTE! It was never really mentioned (as far as I can remember) when the servant's ball took place at Downton, and since we only have the S2 Christmas Special to rely upon, I just remember it was sometime early in the new year, so it just seemed to make sense to hold it on an evening like Twelfth Night.<em>


	3. Chapter 3

_Some trigger warnings for this chapter: forced kissing and violation of personal space_

* * *

><p>Chapter Three<p>

"…I had always wondered…" William murmured after a moment.

Tom looked at the man…or angel, as he was now, with confused eyes. "Wondered?"

William nodded, a smile spreading across his face. "About you and Lady Sybil."

Tom's face flushed hotly and just as he had done all those years ago on the night he first held her in his arms, he found himself bashfully looking down, like a boy who had just asked a girl he fancied to go for a walk with him after school. "Are you surprised?" he found himself asking, doubting it very much. Looking back, in some ways it was amazing people hadn't put two and two together.

William simply continued to smile. "I suppose you were the right man to go to when I was 'overwrought' with feelings of 'unrequited love'."

_Unrequited love_; that did amuse him.

"I confess, I miss the Servant's Balls at Downton," William wistfully sighed, before chuckling at a memory. "It was Lady Sybil's doing that they didn't have one the following year, isn't that right?"

Tom nodded his head. "She didn't think it was right to hold them while members of staff had gone to war. That we should 'wait' until they returned."

William smiled at that. "She's a very considerate person, Lady Sybil," to which Tom did easily nod his head I agreement to. However, he stiffened slightly when William murmured, "It's interesting that you begin your story there, at the Servant's Ball...which…can only lead me to conclude that the reason you're _here_, is somehow connected to Lady Sybil?"

Despite what William had told him, about only knowing so much, it was obvious to Tom that his angelic friend knew a bit more than he was letting on. Was he trying to get Tom to reveal something? Was this meant to be some version of "confession"? _But I have no shame; I take great pride in the love of that young woman and I shall strive to be worthy of it!_

Was he worthy? The thought…or fear…came to him once again, something he had been struggling with ever since he left Britain's shores to fight in its war.

"So what happened next?"

Tom turned back to William and despite the fact that the man was now an angel, he couldn't help but frown at his friend. "_Nothing_ happened, as you know. You were still working at Downton then, and despite your suspicions, Sybil and I never—"

"Forgive me, Tom," William cut in, looking apologetic. "I didn't mean to sound as if I were 'accusing you', not at all." A bit of the fight deflated within him then, and now Tom was the one who looked apologetic for thinking William was angling for something. "And you're right; I didn't leave for the War until the following year, in the early spring of 1915."

Tom remembered. William was finally granted permission to go and so go he went, despite Mrs. Patmore's protests and Daisy's misgivings. Tom thought the younger man a fool, but also knew it wasn't his decision to make, so he did not interfere.

"But what happened after I left? Between you and Lady Sybil?"

Tom shifted his weight from one foot to another. "Nothing…really," he mumbled. Which was true, nothing really did happen; they continued to be friends as before, and despite the line that had been crossed at the previous year's Servant's Ball, they "kept to their places", his dreams being the only place where dances or kisses were exchanged.

"Mr. Branson, I'm honestly not trying to accuse or accusing you of anything bad or inappropriate. But I am trying to understand how the story of an innocent kiss under the mistletoe at Downton's last Servant's Ball brought you to the War?"

Tom closed his eyes and sighed. 1915 had been a year where both he and Sybil, while being polite and friendly to each other, had also kept their distance from one another…especially after something that had _nearly_ happened. But, as William had asked, it couldn't be denied that this particular moment that Tom was thinking about, _did_ push things forward for the both of them…

* * *

><p><em>Late June, 1915<br>Downton Abbey_

It was no use. Reading the newspaper, tinkering with an engine, nothing could distract him from the thoughts that were flying through his head. Thoughts about her and…and _that git._

The git had a name: Larry Grey. The Hon. Larry Grey, son of Lord Merton, a close family friend of the Crawleys, apparently. The Hon. Mr. Grey and his family were dining at Downton that evening, "celebrating", as it were, Mr. Grey's "last night" before leaving for London the following the morning, and thus leaving for France. Perhaps under any other circumstance, Tom would have felt a touch of sympathy for the man; calling this Mr. Grey's "last night" could be taken quite literally, certainly in this War. Yet such sympathetic feelings quickly vanished as soon as Mr. Grey sneered at him, thrusting his suitcase into Tom's arms the second he had gotten off the train, before muttering, _"don't just stand there gaping, we're late enough as it is,"_ before turning to another man in his party (a brother, Tom assumed) and chuckling, _"mustn't keep Sybil waiting."_

In the time he had worked at Downton, Tom had never met or seen a suitor of Sybil's. It was impossible to imagine that she didn't have admirers. While the two of them didn't really talk about her London season from the previous summer, Tom had heard enough from both Old Lady Grantham and the Countess that Sybil had been a "success". He had no idea what that meant exactly, but honestly, how could she not be? Though he had the sinking suspicion it meant she had turned quite a few heads (she was destined to do that anyway, in whatever she did). Still, Tom had been spared having to see her interact with any of these suitors…until now.

_No, this is worse,_ he thought to himself. He wasn't seeing her interact with the git, he was imagining it, and it made him sick to his stomach.

He knew it was impossible; it was absolutely mad to even try to think the two of them could have a future together. Even though he had told her he wouldn't always be a chauffeur, he still was just the chauffeur, and she was a Lady, the daughter of his employer. That, and…well, while he did like to think she thought of him as a good, close friend…he doubted he meant anything more to her.

But even so, she deserved so much better than…than _that git!_

_ Surely Sybil doesn't return Mr. Grey's affections? _Granted, while his time in Mr. Grey's presence had been extremely brief (thank God), he highly doubted the man had better qualities than what he had already witnessed_. And she's not so shallow to be won over by just a handsome face_.

The sound of hurried footsteps could be heard on the gravel just beyond the garage. Tom's head perked up, and even though he thought it impossible, he moved quickly to the door because he recognized those footsteps, knew them by heart…

"Milady?"

Sybil gasped, stopping just before she crashed into him. Tom's eyes widened as he took in her appearance—her hair had come undone and was falling down her neck, and there were tears running down her cheeks.

Something coiled in the pit of his stomach, and it made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end and the muscles in his back tense and his knuckles crack as he unconsciously balled his hands into his fists. "What happened?" he asked her, doing his best to keep his voice calm, but at the same time, feeling the sudden violent urge to scour the house and grounds, looking for Mr. Grey who he knew, without any doubt, was the cause for her distress.

Sybil shook her head at his question, and glancing over her shoulder, turned back to him and slipped past him, into the garage. Tom looked beyond the garage, scanning the area around them, making sure she wasn't being followed, before shutting the door and turning back to her. "Milady," he cautiously moved towards her, not wanting to startle her further. She was sniffling and trying to wipe at her eyes, turning her head so he couldn't see her tears. It broke his heart, seeing her so upset. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, offering it to her and grateful she accepted it. "Would you like to sit down?" he offered, motioning towards the bench she usually sat upon when she came to visit him in the garage. He wished more than ever it was a chair like those in Lord Grantham's library, or that he could offer her a cup of tea or…or that he could hold her until her tears stopped…and never let her go.

But he pushed his own selfish thoughts aside and concentrated on her, waiting to hear her decision. Instead, after dabbing at her eyes and blowing her nose with his handkerchief, she gave a little sigh that was followed by a somewhat self-mocking laugh. "I'm being silly—"

"You're upset," he interrupted. "There's nothing silly about being upset."

She looked down. "You'll think me silly when you hear my reason."

"No I won't," he was quick to argue, though his voice and eyes were tender. _I could never think that of you. _

Sybil sighed and shook her head. "You say that—"

"I'll be the judge of what I find 'silly' or not. Besides, you would have to tell me anyway, and while I hope you will because I do want to help, at the same time, I won't press you to tell me…however…" he held her gaze and looked at her with very serious eyes. "I…I don't mean to presume, but…if this has anything to do with Mr. Grey…"

He wasn't wrong, because as soon as he mentioned the git's name, Sybil stiffened, and then rolled her eyes and groaned. Clearly there was no love lost between her and Mr. Grey; he could set aside his fears in that regard.

"Milady, if he has upset you, you need to say something to his Lordship—"

A snort escaped her nostrils then, and Sybil started shaking her head. "Papa _would_ say that I was being silly," she muttered. "And I know how favorably he and Mama find Larry."

"They won't think favorably of him if they knew he had upset you," Tom urged. "If not his Lordship, then perhaps Lord Merton?" Unlike his son, Tom did think Lord Merton a decent man during their brief introduction at the station.

But again, Sybil just shook her head. "Sadly, I think they would all dismiss my tears as just having…'over-romantic sensibilities'."

Tom's brow furrowed. What on earth did she mean by that?

Sybil nibbled her lip and looked up at him, before sighing and moving at last to her bench. "Larry, as you know, is leaving tomorrow; he'll be going to France."

He nodded his head, but didn't say anything. The bench was small and only had enough room for one person to sit, but that didn't matter, he simply knelt down next to her on the floor.

"I…I know this sounds terribly arrogant of me, but…well, Larry has always been a bit keen on me," she looked embarrassed at the confession, "and while I do remember getting along with him when we were children, I never cared for him beyond 'friendship' and I'm even reluctant to use that particular word," she admitted. "We did dance…several times, during my Season, but…other than that, I never encouraged him to pursue me or give him cause to think—"

"It doesn't matter," Tom broke in, unable to help himself. "_You_ are not the one at fault here." He took a deep breath and prepared himself as he asked his next question, being careful with how he approached it. "…Did Mr. Grey…do something?"

Sybil turned her face away and Tom noticed how red it had become. _Please don't feel ashamed or embarrassed…not with me. I'll not judge you; I'll stand by your side, always._

She took a deep breath and lifted her eyes to the ceiling…before finally lowering them and murmuring so softly he had to lean in to hear, "…he kissed me."

Larry Grey had kissed her.

And…based on the way which Sybil said it, Tom could only guess it was not welcomed or reciprocated.

"Did…did he do anything else?"

Sybil shook her head and for that, Tom was relieved, but still, he could see that she had been quite shaken from the uninvited kiss and for that alone, he yearned to sink his fist into the other man's face.

"It's a silly thing to be upset over—"

"No, it's not," Tom all but growled, before quickly apologizing as the harshness of his tone did cause Sybil to jump a bit. "It's not," he repeated, his voice a bit calmer. "If you didn't want him to kiss you, then he shouldn't, plain and simple."

Sybil looked down at her hands which were folded on her lap. "He asked me during dinner to…to take a stroll with him through the gardens, since it's such a 'fair evening', and Mama insisted that I go, reminding me again that this is 'Larry's last night', so…I don't know why, but I agreed, foolishly thinking that he wouldn't dare try anything, but…not long after we had begun our stroll, I felt his hand snake around my waist to draw me close to his side, and I turned to shrug his hand away, and…and that was when he suddenly seized me by the shoulders and I opened my mouth to protest and…and that was when I felt his mouth…" she stopped there, thoroughly disgusted and looking as if she might be sick upon recalling the memory. Tom felt his own stomach twist and turn as well, but he also felt intense rage at the thought of this so-called "gentleman" violating her, and knew that tomorrow, he would have to fake an illness and let Pratt be the one to drive Mr. Grey to the station, otherwise Lord Merton's son would be in danger from more than just Tom's fists.

"I'm sorry that happened," he spoke at last. "What he did was wrong, milady, but let me repeat that; what _he_ did was wrong. He broke your trust and overstepped the boundaries, you are blameless here, completely."

She did smile a little at his words, and Tom did feel his heart lift just a little at the sight.

"I did leave him writhing on the ground," she whispered, her smile spreading. "I shot my knee up and hit him hard, right where it counts."

Despite the seriousness of the matter, Tom couldn't help but laugh then, and his chest swelled with pride for her. _That's my girl._ "Well done, milady," he congratulated.

She grinned and nodded her head in thanks, but then her expression changed once more, and again she looked sad. "That was my first kiss…" she whispered, more to herself, but he did hear. "It wasn't exactly how I imagined it would be…"

Tom began shaking his head. "It wasn't your first kiss."

"But it was," Sybil told him, blushing and looking embarrassed at this revelation. "I…I don't mean on the hand or the cheek, but…I've never been kissed on the lips before, and…" she looked down then and Tom could see a stray tear roll down her cheek. "I know it's silly, but…when I imagined my first kiss, I always wanted it would be with the man I love…"

She lifted her eyes then and met his gaze, and time seemed to freeze then. Tom couldn't help it, his eyes dropped to her lips for a moment, and Sybil parted them as if to say something further, but instead, her own eyes just seemed to do as his did…fall and gaze at his lips.

Was it his imagination? Were their heads…swaying?

"…That's not silly," he whispered after a moment, forcing his eyes back to hers. His fingers yearned to reach out and stroke her cheek, to wipe away her tear, but somehow, with some kind of divine strength, he resisted. "You alone should decide how and with whom your first kiss…or any kiss for that matter, should be…but I repeat again, that wasn't your first kiss."

Sybil's brow furrowed. "But Branson—"

"Didn't you hear what I just said, milady?" he asked her, his tone light and teasing. "_You_ alone should decide how and with whom you kiss…and from what you tell me, Mr. Grey…_he_ made that choice, not you. He kissed you, but against your will and you didn't kiss him back, did you?"

She looked horrified at the thought. "Lord no!" she gasped, which did earn a small laugh from the both of them.

Tom smiled and nodded his head. "So you see? It _wasn't_ your first kiss."

He watched as her smile slowly began to grow, and he could see some relief fill her eyes at this explanation. He leaned back, glad that he had been able to provide her some comfort in her moment of distress, but still concerned about what was going to happen next. Someone had to say something; Larry Grey couldn't—_shouldn't_—get away so easily.

"How old were you, when you had your first kiss?"

Tom's eyes widened at her sudden question. "I…" he suddenly felt tongue-tied and his face was burning. "I um…" he swallowed.

Sybil blushed and pressed her lips together to hold back her giggle. "Sorry, I know it's terribly forward of me, I…well, I was just curious. I'm sure it sounds rather strange…nineteen and never having been kissed."

_ I would kiss you if you wish; I would_ gladly _kiss you if you asked me…_

"I…I don't think that's strange," he replied, a slight squeak to his voice. "And…and I was fifteen," he answered, blushing more so at her smile than at the memory of that first clumsy kiss.

She grinned as if she were imagining his fifteen-year-old self in that moment. "Fifteen? My, aren't you the charmer," she giggled. "I have a feeling you were quite popular with the girls back in Ireland."

He could only imagine how red he looked. He bashfully looked down. "I wouldn't say that, milady, but whether you're fifteen, nineteen, or…or a hundred…when the moment is right and you desire it…that will be when it happens."

She smiled at that and reached out, surprising him by taking his hand in hers and giving it a squeeze. "Thank you, Branson."

He looked back at her…and naturally squeezed her fingers in fingers in response. "You're very welcome, milady." Her hand felt so right in his…

They both rose to their feet then, and Tom reluctantly released her hand and stuffed both of his inside his pockets. "I better go back," Sybil sighed, glancing at a window and observing the night sky. "I'm sure Larry has recovered from his ordeal and Mama and Papa will be wondering what's kept me."

Tom's face grew serious then. "You should say something," he urged. "Tell her Ladyship at least; what Mr. Grey did was wrong and he needs to be dealt with."

Sybil looked down, her hands still folded in front of her. "I don't know if it will do any good…but I know you're right. And while I don't wish Larry any permanent sort of harm, at the same time I know I wouldn't mind never having to see his face at Downton again."

Tom did smile at that and felt relief fill him at her words. He trusted her to do what was right.

There was a brief and somewhat awkward pause that passed between them then, as if neither were sure how exactly to say goodbye, but finally Sybil moved to the door, pausing just briefly at it to look back at him. "Well…goodnight then."

He nodded his head. "Goodnight, milady," he murmured, smiling softly as she pulled the door open and began to step outside. But before he could stop himself, the words tumbled out, "He's a lucky man."

Sybil paused and looked over her shoulder, a curious expression on her face. "Who?"

"The man with whom you'll share your first kiss," he answered. "The man that you'll give your heart to love."


	4. Chapter 4

_Clearly, as this is an AU, I'm playing around with certain things that happened in S2, meaning playing around with *when* certain things happened, i.e. William and Matthew's injuries took place much earlier, than when they took place on the show. Just sharing that so things will *hopefully* still make sense! Thanks again for reading!_

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><p>Chapter Four<p>

"…So you didn't kiss her?"

Tom was shaken by William's question, or rather by the bluntness of the question. He wasn't used to hearing William be so forward.

"No," Tom answered, a little affronted that he would be asked such thing after telling his story.

"Didn't you want to kiss her?"

Lord in heaven! An ironic phrase, he quickly realized. Tom closed his eyes and lifted his hand to rub the bridge of his nose. _No point in lying; not now, not anymore_. "Aye," he finally answered.

William nodded at this. "…So why didn't you?"

Tom's eyes widened in surprise. How…how could William ask him that? Hadn't he just heard his story? "She was upset! And after what happened to her, it would have been the worst time to…to…"

"What did she say to you?"

Tom looked at William in confusion. "What?"

"When you told her you thought that 'the man who kisses her will be a lucky man'…what did she say? How did she respond?"

Tom felt his face burn brightly at the question. He looked down at his feet on the muddy ground. "She didn't say anything, she…blushed, smiled, perhaps murmured 'goodnight' once again, and then…then she was gone."

William simply nodded his head, and looked as if he were deeply contemplating something. He then turned back to Tom and asked, without preamble, "Were you in love with her then?"

As much as Tom had missed William and was glad to see him once again, he wasn't sure he liked this new side of him, where he had no inhibitions about what questions to ask.

"Well?"

_Isn't it obvious?_ Tom sighed and nodded his head. "Aye," he whispered, and then remembering what he had said to Mr. Carson, to Lord Grantham, he lifted his head and stuck his chin out and repeated, "Aye." _I have no shame; I have great pride in the love of that young woman and I shall strive to be worthy of it._

William smiled at that. "And…do you still love her? Are you still in love with her?"

Tom's face softened and tears began to blur his vision as he thought of his sweet Sybil…and how he would never see her again. "Aye," he whispered, just barely swallowing the lump in his throat.

William nodded again. "So then what happened? Did Lady Sybil tell someone about the odious Mr. Grey?"

Tom sighed. "I'm not sure; I like to think that she did. He didn't come back to Downton for a long time."

At this William lifted an eyebrow. "But he did come back?"

Tom's jaw tightened at the memory. "Aye," he all but growled.

Again, William just nodded, as if he already knew this, before continuing, "Well, before we discuss that, tell me…what happened next?"

_What happened next…_

Tom looked back at William and a deep sadness filled his eyes. William blinked and then made the realization. "Ah…_that."_

Tom nodded, though he couldn't help himself with also adding, "That, and…and my cousin."

William frowned. "Your cousin?"

Tom nodded. "He was killed during the Easter Rising; shot by soldiers because they thought he 'was probably a rebel', even though he didn't have a political bone in his body," he bitterly spat. "He died a few days before…" he glanced at William and lowered his eyes.

William simply nodded his head in understanding. "Tell me about those days…please?"

He didn't really want to, but what else was there to do? This was Purgatory, and all anyone could do was…wait. And he was supposed to be helping William with "guiding him" on where next to go, though at this point, Tom wondered if it mattered at all.

Even heaven would feel like hell without Sybil…

* * *

><p><em>April, 1916<br>Downton Abbey_

God, his head hurt. His entire body was stiff and sore from having fallen asleep in the rickety kitchen chair, the table holding a brunt of his weight, the empty whiskey bottle still clutched in his fingers. He ached and hurt all over, but nothing compared to the pounding in his head…

No…that wasn't his head that was pounding…that was someone at his…door?

Tom squinted his eyes as he looked out a nearby window. It was early morning judging from the birds singing, but it was still dark. Too dark for anyone from the big house wanting him to drive them somewhere (and just as well, since he was in no condition to drive) but…had something happened? He rose, stumbling practically, not caring that the kitchen chair had fallen backwards, and stumbled towards the cottage door, taking a brief look at his appearance to make sure he was "presentable" if it were Mr. Carson, then without further thought, turned the lock and opened the door—

Tom's eyes widened at the sight of the person standing on his doorstep. Suddenly, he became very self-conscious of how he looked. "M-m-m-milady," he stammered, looking at Sybil.

She was…good God, she was standing there, in her _dressing gown!_ Was this is a dream? Surely it was; how many times had he dreamt of her coming to him like this? Or finding her in his cottage, her arms outstretched, telling him she loved him, begging him to kiss her, take her to bed, make love to her, marry her—

"I'm sorry to wake you," she apologized, bringing him back to the present. "But…you weren't there and you have a right to know."

A right to know? And what did she mean "he wasn't there"? His head was foggy from drink and the pounding had returned with a vengeance. "I…I'm sorry, milady, I don't understand—"

"We received a telegram," Sybil interrupted. "About Cousin Matthew."

Tom stiffened. He could only imagine one outcome.

"He's not dead!" Sybil was quick to add, though despite the hope in her voice, he could see worry and fear in her eyes. "He's…he's been injured, but to what extent, we're not sure. But he's coming back to Downton, and…and so is William, at least I believe William is coming back…I hope he will…" her voice started to trail off, sounding more and more doubtful.

Tom was confused. "William? Why…why is he…?"

"We don't know the details," she continued. "The telegram didn't say much, but…but I believe William was injured as well…" she bit her lip and Tom thought he saw something shimmer in her eyes. "I…I fear it's very bad."

Very bad; that could mean anything. It could mean that he lost an arm, a leg, a hand, an eye…it could mean that he was permanently scarred or he would never walk again…it could mean any number of things…

It could mean that he was dying.

"I thought you should know…I didn't see you amongst the staff when Carson brought them into the library, and I know that you and William got along fairly well—"

"Aye," Tom whispered, feeling completely drained. "Thank you."

Sybil studied him for a moment, causing him to squirm uncomfortably. "…Branson, is everything alright—?"

"Fine," he muttered, biting the inside of his cheek to keep his emotions in check. She tried to look past him, but he purposefully moved his body so as to block her view of the kitchen that just lay beyond…and the empty whiskey bottle he had left there.

…And the crumpled telegram he had received from his brother.

"Branson, I…if there's anything I can—"

"Best be getting back, milady, before someone sees you out here."

His tone was cold and a bit harsh, but right now he wanted more than anything to be left alone. He was sad for William, yes; he was even sad for Mr. Matthew. But he knew the bad news in regards to them would overshadow anything personal. And why wouldn't it? Who was his cousin to the rest of them? Just some unknown, unnamed stranger. And Tom had learned long ago that when working in service, one's personal life (and troubles) always took second place to what was happening connected to the family one served, and the house which they served.

She mumbled something to him, but he didn't hear. He simply nodded his head and then shut the door, before returning to his kitchen and gazing down once again at the crumpled telegram. Two wars were raging on either side of Britain's shores. One was larger, and involved a great many countries and armies. That was the war he was completely against, a war he wanted nothing to do with, yet he couldn't escape it. Everywhere he went, there signs of that war's existence, be it the form of posters calling for Englishmen to "do their part for king and country", or wounded soldiers, coming in and out of the hospital…a place that the car was driving to a much more frequent basis, as he was taking Sybil there quite often. She was volunteering and trying to help Mrs. Crawley quite a bit, needing—desiring to do something more, than simply what was expected of "earl's daughters" during such times.

And then there was the other war, a smaller war, but one that he would argue had been raging for far longer. The battlefields for this war were on a smaller scale, and it was between two lands, not multiple ones, but unlike the greater war, this was one he did support, one he wished—yearned for, even, to be a part of, in some way. And yet unlike the other, there was very little news about it, and hardly any signs of its existence, unless you looked very carefully, and even then, it was completely one-sided…and not for the side Tom wished to know.

_Why are you still here? Perhaps now, more than ever, you should hand in your notice and return to Ireland, to be a part of her struggle and do your part!_

But if he left, he knew he wouldn't be coming back. And…that would mean having to say goodbye…to her.

Was he ready to do that?

He was wrong, there were _three_ wars happening right now, and this third war wasn't between nations or governments, but it was completely inside himself. And yet it seemed to rage the loudest, as one part of him argued that nothing would ever happen, that she was too far above him, that he was mad to even think she think and feel the same way as he did, while the other part of him screamed that he hadn't even tried; that he needed to tell her, that he needed to let her know what was in his heart and just…take a leap of faith.

But it didn't matter; all that, everything, was going to be overshadowed over the next few days and weeks as the house and everyone inside it, focused on William and Mr. Matthew's return.

And he wasn't wrong, because that was exactly what happened. Two days later, both men returned to Downton, Mr. Matthew to the hospital while William was brought back to the house.

Their injuries were indeed, very bad. Mr. Matthew had suffered some sort of spinal injury, and the odds of him ever being able to walk again looked extremely slim. During the days that followed, it wasn't Sybil, but a different Crawley sister to whom Tom drove back and forth from the hospital, as Lady Mary became a sort of "permanent nurse" to Mr. Matthew. Sybil stayed at the house, taking on the position of a nurse for William, doing everything she could to make sure he was comfortable and feeling as little pain as possible, because…because that was all they could do for him.

Everyone was quiet and somber around the house, waiting on tenterhooks for the sad, inevitable announcement of the former footman's passing. Tom was sad for William as well, but when Mrs. Hughes found him in the Servant's Hall, staring down into a cold cup of tea, silent tears running down his face, she patted his shoulder and said, "I know, lad, I know; he's dear to us all, our sweet William."

He didn't have the heart to tell her that it wasn't William who he was crying for, and he felt wretched that he wasn't, as William was there, under the same roof, while he hadn't seen his cousin for years. And in his own way, wasn't William "family" too? But he was angry that he couldn't "properly" mourn for his cousin, or at least he felt that he couldn't. And so he thought it best for everyone, himself included, that he just stay away, keep to his cottage, and only emerge for the purposes of work, but that was all.

The following day, the inevitable finally happened. And it was Sybil again, who came to deliver the message.

"…Branson?"

He was leaning over an open bonnet when he heard her voice. He lifted his head and saw that her cheeks were pink, puffy, and wet.

"William?" he whispered.

Sybil nodded.

Tom didn't say anything...he silently nodded his head, but didn't say anything. He didn't trust his voice, to be honest.

They both stood in silence for a long moment, each of them looking at some spot on the floor. And then, without warning…sobs began to rack his body. Because even though William was his own person, for some reason, his death felt like the loss of his cousin all over again.

He turned his head away, but she had seen already. She gasped and he even though he wasn't looking at her, he heard her move towards him, and murmur, "Branson—" but he moved away, around the car to keep some distance between them.

"Go away, milady," he gasped between his sobs, his hands reaching out to grip the edges of the Renault's bonnet.

"You don't need to feel ashamed—"

"GO AWAY!" he roared, startling them both because he hadn't shouted like that at anyone in a long time. He looked at her, immediately feeling sorry for having raised his voice, but he couldn't help it, nor could he stop crying. How could she—how could anyone understand what he was feeling right now? This mix of shame, guilt, sorrow, anger, this longing to be left alone to grieve on his own, while at the same time he yearned for a touch of human kindness and a sympathetic ear to hear his troubles? And despite the words he had roared, he managed to gasp at last, "my cousin is dead."

Sybil's eyes widened. He half expected her to look upon piteously, or to say something that most people would say in such a situation_: "oh I'm so sorry…"_ But instead, she asked, "When?"

"The Easter Rising," he whispered, after taking a deep breath. "He was walking down North King's Street when he was shot." The sobs threatened to burst all over again. "He…he…he wasn't even fighting!"

His body bent over, and his shoulders shook as he cried anew.

He hadn't realized she was there…until he felt the weight of her body pressing against his back. He stiffened momentarily as he realized…she was holding him. But she didn't loosen her arms, he kept them wrapped around him, and just held him, not saying anything further, not filling his ears with the sympathetic words, just…being there, as he grieved.

And he did grieve. He grieved for both his cousin and William, and he grieved for all the men who had lost their lives in both of these wars. And she grieved with him. And how long they stood like that, he wasn't sure. But after that day he knew he couldn't leave Downton, not without saying something to her, not without telling her how he felt.

War continued to rage in Ireland and on the Continent. But the war within himself was over.


	5. Chapter 5

_Just making it under the wire for this one, but it's worth it, I think. Hope you think so too ;o)_

* * *

><p>Chapter Five<p>

"…So did you tell her then? That you loved her?"

Tom wasn't even surprised any longer by William's questions. In fact, what surprised him was his old friend's fixation on the possible progress in his pursuit of Sybil, than on the fact that he had more or less just admitted that the tears he had shed on the day of William's own passing were for his cousin. Like a priest at confession, Tom had confessed to William that while he was indeed very sad at William's death, he was upset because he felt that he was being "denied" the chance to mourn for his cousin. Didn't that bother him? Or hurt his feelings? Here was Tom, standing there in this foggy trench, feeling horribly guilty for the story he had just shared, and yet William couldn't stop grinning and looking eager to hear the next part, to learn what had taken place between himself and Sybil Crawley.

"No…not right away, I…aren't you upset?"

William frowned, looking confused. "Upset? Why?"

"Because of what I just told you…about…about my cousin, and—"

"Mr. Branson," William interrupted. "I'm here as your guide, not as your judge, and even so…what would be the point? Are you expecting me to be jealous because you grieved for someone else?"

Tom shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another. "…Yes?"

William threw his head back and laughed, before shaking it in response. "I appreciate your honesty, Mr. Branson, but I can assure you, I'm not upset, I'm not 'jealous', and I know…in your own way, you did grieve for me."

He had, and he did, that was true. And he was grateful that William was so understanding about it all, in fact this had been something he had been feeling guilty over for quite some time, so it was good to speak about, especially…with, of all people, William himself.

"But there's a reason you told me that story," William went on, never losing focus. "There's a connection to it and Lady Sybil; I'd like to learn more about that, will you tell me?"

Tom stuffed his hands into his pockets and sighed. "Well, as I told you, Sybil spent a great deal of her time volunteering at the hospital in whatever way she could, most of the time assisting Mrs. Crawley, but after you came back, she dedicated herself to being your nurse."

William smiled fondly at that. "I do remember, yes. She was always very kind, I thought, but when I came back, she was so attentive, so concerned, and like you said, so dedicated to her task," he paused and chuckled softly to himself. "She was the angel."

"Aye," Tom whispered, easily imagining that.

_ "Tom…"_

"Did you say something?"

William looked back at him and shook his head. Tom's brow furrowed as he looked around them, trying to see if there was anything…or anyone else with them in this fog.

"Please continue," William encouraged, drawing Tom back to the present.

Tom glanced around one more time, before clearing his throat and carrying on. "Um…well, Sybil, she…she wanted to so much more than what was 'expected' of her…"

At that, William chuckled. "That sounds like Lady Sybil."

_Indeed it does_. "She said she wanted 'real work', to have a 'real job' that would make a difference, so Mrs. Crawley suggested she actually go to York and enroll at a nurse's training college there, take some courses and become a volunteer auxiliary nurse."

William's smile broadened. "Lady Sybil would have been perfect at that."

"Aye, she was—she _is_," Tom added, his own face growing tender at the thought. He remembered her coming to tell him about the course, how excited she was that she was, revealing that she had always wanted to go to school and now, at last, here was her chance. She couldn't wait to start, though she also admitted she was nervous, being so far away from home and completely on her own for the first time. But despite that initial fear, she was determined. And even though the news surprised him and caused his heart to break a little at the thought of her being away, he couldn't deny that he too felt proud for her, and knew without any doubt, she would excel.

"So when was this? That she went to nursing school?"

Tom looked down at the ground then, more so because the memories brought both a blush to his face, and tears to his eyes. "That summer," he murmured. "The summer after…" his voice trailed off, and he glanced sadly up at William, but William just continued to smile, showing no signs that he missed his mortal life.

"I see. And…" William turned expectantly to Tom. "What did you do?"

Tom's brow furrowed. "What did I do?" he repeated.

At that, William folded his arms across his chest. "Did you tell her at last, Mr. Branson? Did you finally reveal to her your heart?"

Tom's eyes looked off into the distance, the memory of that day playing out before him like a moving picture…

* * *

><p><em>June, 1916<br>York_

He hadn't gotten a great deal of sleep the previous night. For that reason he probably shouldn't have been the one to drive her to York, yet he honestly didn't feel tired; if anything, he felt anxious, and perhaps a little confused, and both emotions were due to the fact that he was still unsure what to do or say. Today was it; after today, he wouldn't see her again until the end of the summer, and who knows what would happen by then. What if she met some handsome doctor? Or a soldier she was nursing during her training? What if something happened to him? Conscription was taking place now, and while he had yet to receive his summons, it could happen at any day. And that was another thing he was anxious about, trying to make up his mind on what would be the best option if that ever should fall on his lap? And about Ireland? He still longed to be a part of his country's fight for freedom, yet he also knew he couldn't leave, not at least without telling her how he felt. If she didn't feel the same way, if she dismissed him, well…he would leave heartbroken, but at least he would leave knowing that he tried.

No, he had to do it today, this was his last chance, and while he hated himself for doing this to her, putting this sort of…pressure on her, just as she was about to embark on this new venture, he knew he couldn't keep quiet until the summer's end. It had to be now; it had to be today…

At least they were someplace away from her family and anyone either of them knew. If she rejected him, at least the embarrassment would be minimal in terms of anyone seeing them.

"Gracious…" Sybil breathed, and Tom looked up at the stone arches with which they passed under, and beyond to a courtyard where several rehabilitating soldiers (some of whom were missing limbs) were going about doing their morning exercises with an instructor. Indeed, it was a great deal to take in…and he was feeling his courage wane with every step.

"This is it!" Sybil gasped, stopping in front of a particular archway and glancing down at a slip of paper she held. "Monroe Hall," she read, and sure enough, the name was there above the arch.

Tom let out a shaky breath as he put down her suitcases, his palms sweating beneath his gloves, and nervously tugging at the ends of his livery jacket. Sybil turned back and smiled up at him, oblivious to the storm that was raging inside him. "It will be hard to let you go…my last link of home," she murmured with a smile and delightful blush to her cheek. Words of friendship with which she spoke, because at the end of day, if all else failed, at least they were that…friends.

He swallowed, removed his hat and tried to push past the lump that seemed lodged in this throat. "Not as hard for you as it is for me…"

She laughed then, probably thinking he was making a joke…but her smile began to fade as she no doubt noticed the seriousness of his expression. _Oh God…this is it…this is happening…_

"Branson…?"

His mouth fell open, but no sound came out. It was as if his voice were lost. _No, no, don't be a mindless fool now!_

"Branson, are you—?"

"I…I know I shouldn't say such things…" he stammered, stumbling over himself and inwardly cursing at the mess he was making. "And…and I've told myself and told myself you're too far above me…but…but things are changing…and when the war is over, the world will be different, and I'll make something of myself, I promise—"

"I know you will!" Sybil interrupted, her eyes holding his gaze firmly, a mixture of concern, confusion, faith, and…something else, in their depths.

"Then bet on me!" he blurted out, wincing as soon as the words escaped him. _You've gone this far, you might as well finish, you daft idiot._

She blinked…and her eyes narrowed a little. "Bet on you?" she repeated, her voice soft.

"Aye," he answered, his entire body shaking, but he pushed onward. "Sybil, I…"

Her breath caught, as it was the first time he had ever spoken her name so freely, though for so long it was how he thought of her. She looked at him, her eyes wide and clear and for a moment he was lost in the beauty of their blue, and despite his racing heart, he managed to finish what he had meant to tell her from the beginning.

"Sybil, I'm in love with you."

She sucked in a breath, and her hand flew to her mouth as she took a trembling step back. This was not good.

"I…I am," he went on. "I…I've been in love with you for…for a very long time—"

"You're telling me this _now?"_ she asked him, and he winced at what sounded like outrage in her voice. _You do know how to pick your moments, don't you Tom?_ He sighed and looked down, already feeling a sense of defeat flood his being.

"I know my timing is bad," he murmured, to which she made a sound that could no doubt be interpreted as agreement, but he carried on, because what was the point in holding back now? "But I had to tell you…you deserve to know and…and I hated keeping this to myself any longer."

He lifted his eyes then, but saw that she was looking down now herself. You're a fool, Tom Branson; it's clear she doesn't feel the same and you've just ruined a precious friendship. God, could lightening please strike him dead now?

"Alright," he said after an awkward pause, placing his hat back on his head. "Alright," he repeated once again. "When…when you return, I won't be there."

"What!?" she gasped, her head whipping around, her eyes wide and her face pale.

"I won't be there," he repeated. "You won't have to see me and I won't bother you again; I'll hand in my notice—"

"No, don't do that!"

"I must," he went on, trying to sound braver than he felt. "His Lordship won't want me there when they hear—"

"They _won't_ hear…not from me," she stressed, but if it was meant to be a comfort, it wasn't. She was trying to be sweet, she was trying to be as gentle as possible in her letting him down, but nothing could console him now, not after laying his heart out like that.

"That's very kind of you, milady," he whispered, going back to using her title once again. "But…but I can't stay, not now."

"But—?"

"I wish you the very best with your training," he told her, meaning it and even finding the strength to put on a smile for her. "You'll be a wonderful nurse; I have no doubt about that."

_Go, you fool, go now before you humiliate yourself further and burst into tears in front of her!_ He gave a stiff bow of his head, and then promptly turned on his back, biting the inside of his cheek and keeping his eyes firm and steady straight ahead as he began the walk back, through the archway, to the car—

"TOM!"

He actually to reach out and grasp at one of the stone walls to keep from stumbling forward. He honestly didn't know what shocked him more, the fact that she had said his name for the first time (and that she knew it) or the fact that she was calling out to him at all.

He drew in a shaky breath…and then slowly turned to look over his shoulder.

She was coming towards him…

"Tom…" she said again, her voice softer, but every bit as clear. "You can't go yet."

He drew himself up and turned to fully face her, unsure exactly how to respond. "I…I can't?"

She shook her head, and she didn't stop moving until she was just a few feet in front of him. "No, not yet," she repeated, and it was then that he noticed she was trembling too, and there were tears in her eyes, though she didn't look sad.

He swallowed. "Why not?"

"Because…" she paused to take a deep breath. "Because I'm ready."

His brow furrowed. "You're…you're ready?"

She nodded, and a large smile broke out across her face. "Yes…I'm finally ready."

He didn't understand. "Ready for…what?"

Her smile only grew more, despite the tears that escaped her eyes. "…For my first kiss."

He blinked. His heart was beating so rapidly and so loudly, he wouldn't be surprised if all those men in that courtyard could hear it. Did she just say…?

"Your…your first kiss?" he repeated, slowly. Her answer was simply a nod of the head. "But…but you said," his mind easily recalling that summer evening a year ago when she had come to him in the garage. "…You said that you wanted your first kiss to be with—"

"—To be with the man I love," she finished for him. "Yes."

His eyes only widened. "Yes?" he repeated, his voice so soft, he wasn't sure he had even made a sound, but he must have, because Sybil, without blinking, nodded her head, and repeated the simple word once again.

"Yes."

He drew in another breath…and was thankful he still held to the building, because surely his legs were about to give out. Was she saying…? Did he dare hope…?

"Sybil," he whispered her name, somehow finding the strength in his legs to take a step towards her, his hand reaching up to remove his hat, while the other moved through the small space between them…and crossed the physical boundary Society had set by reaching out and touching her cheek. He bit back the groan in his chest as she closed her eyes and leaned into his touch.

"Yes," she whispered, her eyes still closed.

"Yes?"

She opened her eyes and smiled back at him. "Yes, you can kiss me," she invited.

A gasp escaped her lips as he moved close, his face mere centimeters from hers, his nose brushing hers, his lips literally a breath apart, but he held himself back just enough to let her move the rest of the way, to let her cross that final threshold as she had invited, and he moaned softly as finally…for the first time, her lips touched his.

It was better than any dream. Better than any imagining. Better…than anything, really. Her lips were every bit as soft as they looked, and far warmer and sweeter than he ever thought possible. They moved against his, and Tom thought his body would melt at the sweet sound of her moan. Everything inside him screamed at him to deepen the kiss, but he held himself back, just a little, not wanting to push or frighten her with his passions. He was not going to ruin this, not now, so help him.

Their lips parted at last, a shaky breath escaped them both. "Oh…my…" Sybil breathed, and Tom couldn't help but smile at that. Her eyes fluttered open and she looked at him, her face turning the most beautiful shade of pink.

He saw it then. He saw the love in her eyes, the same love he felt for her, only reflected for him! There was no shame, no revulsion, no regret, nothing but the purest love. She was in her right mind, she knew what she wanted…and _he_, by some miracle, was what she wanted.

"Can we…?"

He looked at her, his eyes filled with curiosity and wonder, and he felt like a boy on Christmas morning, which was no doubt how he looked because he couldn't stop smiling. "Can we…?" he repeated.

She licked her lips, and he bit back a groan at the brief glimpse of her tongue. "Can we…do that again?"

He laughed, but quickly nodded his head, his fingers still holding her cheek, while his other hand dropped his hat completely, and moved his arm around her waist, which Sybil seemed to like because she moved into him, pressing her chest against his, her hands coming up grip his shoulders. "God knows it's enough that I can kiss you," he whispered, before covering her mouth once more and letting his groan of pleasure escape at last, as again, they lost themselves to their kiss.

Soon her arms were weaving around his neck, and his hold on her tightened. He pulled her closer, needing to feel more of her, wanting to feel more of her, and when her mouth sighed open, he moved his tongue, softly and slowly, to hers, and she whimpered and moaned again…before drawing her own tongue out to play with his.

God, she was a natural. And just like that, their kiss deepened and grew more and more passionate, and who knows what might have happened if they weren't interrupted by the giggles of two young women who came around the bend of the buildings.

Tom and Sybil gasped, and with his arms still around her, he moved them further back, obscuring them from view, but just barely, behind a stone column. Even though they were in another city, one that was a good hour's drive from Downton, they were still very much out in the public, and he was still in his livery uniform.

"Now it really will be hard letting you go," she breathed against his neck, before lifting her head to look back up at him.

Tom couldn't help but give her a bit of sheepish grin then. "My excellent timing," he sighed.

"Indeed," Sybil giggled, before her face grew seriousness. "You mean it, then?"

His brow furrowed. "Mean it?"

She blushed and swallowed. "What you said…about loving me?"

His face softened then and he brought his hand back to her cheek. "Oh my darlin'," he murmured, his accent thicker than usual. He brought his brow down until it touched hers. "I do love you…so very much."

She smiled and sniffed back the tears that threatened to fall, though he knew now there was no sadness behind them. "I love you too," she whispered at last, confirming his greatest hope. "And…and I believe—no, I _know_," she pressed on. "I know that I have…for…for a long time too; I don't know if I could say when exactly, but I do know that I love you and that I've been in love with you, but was too afraid to say or think—"

He cut her off by kissing her again, something which she happily gave into, hugging him even tighter and moaning deeply as their tongues met again. They were both shaking and breathing raggedly when they parted at last. "Oh, Tom…" she moaned, which did make him smile.

"God, that sounds so good," he groaned. "Say it again?"

"What?" she blushed and giggled. "Your name?"

"Aye…I…I can't begin to tell you how long I've waited to hear you say those words, how hard I wished—"

She placed her fingers against his lips. "Tom," she murmured, a sweet (and somewhat devilish) smile spreading across her face. "Tom," she repeated again. "I love you…Tom. Tom Branson, I love you—"

He couldn't stop kissing her, now that he knew what it was like, he couldn't stop! Kissing her was as essential to him now as breathing! And a man couldn't survive without oxygen so honestly, how could he survive without kissing her?

"I love you, Sybil Crawley," he groaned, when their lips parted once more. She smiled, clinging to him for strength and to keep her own knees from buckling.

"Mmmm, yes, it does sound lovely, hearing you say my name as well," she murmured, opening her eyes and gazing back at him, her love for him shining for all the world to see. But he saw sadness there too, and knew what that sadness was. "But…but I still have to go."

He swallowed, knowing this would be hard, parting now after everything that had been revealed, but he knew they could do it. They had the strength now. "Thursdays are my half-day off," he told her. "Every Thursday, I'll come to York; I'll take the bus from Ripon and…and I'll come to you not as 'Branson the chauffeur', but as—"

"My beau?"

His heart melted with delight at her words. "Aye…and…and if you'll let me, I'd like to court you properly then."

"I'd like that too, very much," she giggled, blushing and clutching him even tighter. "And will you write to me? Please?"

As if he could deny her anything right now. "Aye, I will. Every day."

She giggled at that and shook her head. "I'm not asking for 'every day'."

"Even so, I'll still do it."

She laughed again, and God, it was a beautiful sound. But time was ticking by and they both knew it would be even more difficult to part if they didn't do it soon.

"I'll not say 'goodbye', because I'll be seeing you next Thursday," Sybil told him. "So instead I will say…till then."

He kissed her brow and nodded his head in agreement. "Till then, love."

She smiled at that and with great strength…they managed to somehow disentangle themselves from each other, forcing some space between them, and even managing to take several steps away. Though the pull was stronger than ever before.

"Till then…Tom," she repeated again, bringing her fingers to her lips and pressing them there, before lifting her hand.

"Till then…Sybil," he replied back, and picked up his discarded hat and put it back on, once again adopting the persona of Downton chauffeur.

He missed her the second she disappeared from sight, but sadness did not follow him on the drive back to Downton. He was a man renewed, hope was flowing through his veins, and his heart felt ready to burst.

Sybil Crawley was in love with him. And she had asked him to give her her first kiss.

And in many ways, she had given him his first kiss too. Because any memory of previous kisses or encounters had been purged from his mind; all that he saw, all that he could think about, was her.

_To be continued..._


	6. Chapter 6

_Getting this one in a bit later than planned, but here it is all the same! And look out, there be angst ahead..._

* * *

><p>Chapter Six<p>

Tom lifted his head and looked back at William, surprised that his angelic friend didn't have any questions, or anything immediately to say after this revelation.

He was greeted by a large smile that only seemed to grow with every second that passed. "So you did it then?" William murmured at last. "You told her how you felt."

Tom blushed by nodded…and soon found himself smiling as well, his heart warming at the sweet memory of that first kiss, and all the kisses that followed between the two of them. And then sadness filled his heart, as he remembered that he would never kiss her again.

"How long has it been since you've seen her?" William softly asked.

Tom swallowed the emotional lump in his throat and took a long, steady breath before replying. _Too long_. "Not since February," he answered.

William simply nodded. "Do you stay in contact? Does she write to you?"

The sadness in him grew. "Aye, we…we did," he whispered. He used to receive a letter from her every week, sometimes twice. Now…it had been so long. _Three weeks…_

"Tell me about that summer," William asked him. Tom glanced at his friend, but William showed no sign that he was aware of Tom's melancholy.

"Um…well, just…as I said, Thursdays were my half-day, so every Thursday, I would go to Ripon, take the bus to York, and…sometimes she was there to greet me where the bus stopped, other times I walked to the college and waited for her outside, and…other times, we met someplace. There was a pub she liked only two streets away from the hospital where she did her training…" he chuckled as he remembered her first taste of whiskey, how she coughed but was determined to have some more, to prove that "even posh girls could drink". In the end, whiskey was not her beverage of choice, but she did like cider, and she also grew a fondness for fish n' chips, something she had never tasted until York.

The friends she made at the school knew about him, but they knew him simply as "Sybil's beau", and if they were aware of his position when he wasn't visiting her in York, they never said anything. But sometimes her friends would join them at the pub, and they would all laugh, drink, and eat…and sometimes there would be dancing, and without any inhibitions, he and Sybil would hold each other and dance, before slipping off to some secluded corner to kiss and wile away the hours until he was forced to leave her side to catch the last bus back to Ripon.

He took her to the pictures, she took him to museums; on nice days he would go to a park and have a picnic. Things weren't always perfect, of course; sometimes she would have a shift that she couldn't trade, and so he would learn not long after arriving that they couldn't spend time together. Or one time, Pratt had gotten ill and Tom was forced to stay to drive the family if they needed driving (and they hadn't), but forced to stay he was. And like all couples, they sometimes fought, they sometimes groaned and rolled their eyes at each other and spoke harsh words out of stress and frustration, but every time…before he left to go back to Downton, one of them if not both would reach for the other…and after a moment of silence had passed with their hands touching, the reason for that argument would slip away…and they would murmur apologies, whisper words of love, and part with a kiss and a smile and a sigh that they couldn't wait until the following week.

All in all, it was a wonderful summer, and both of them were eagerly looking forward to the end, as well as dreading it. Because the end of summer meant that she would be back at Downton, and they wouldn't have to settle with only seeing each other once a week but every day again…but of course, it also meant that the freedom they had enjoyed while she had been in York would be gone as well. He couldn't simply don one of his two good suits and just be "Tom Branson, Sybil's beau", and she couldn't simply be "Sybil Crawley, a nursing student". They would have to play their parts again, and that he knew would be agony.

"How did you manage?" William asked, genuinely curious.

Tom lifted his eyes to his friend. "Manage?" he repeated, though he already knew what William was asking.

William nodded his head. "After the summer you spent, how did you manage with her back at Downton, and no longer being able to be as…open…as you were, while courting in York?"

Tom sighed and looked back at the ground. "It wasn't easy," he admitted. "It was damn difficult, to be honest."

William did smile at that and even chuckled, though his next question took on a much more serious tone. "Were you ever caught?"

Tom stiffened at the question. He turned and looked at William, and in an icy tone, asked back, "what do you think?"

William looked at him for a moment, shifting his weight a little and tilted his head, as if assessing him. "…Well, you're here," he murmured.

Aye, he was there. He was in the British Army, fighting in a war he didn't support, in the name of a kind and country that wasn't his own. It wasn't difficult to put the pieces of the puzzle together to try and understand how a man like him…came to be in a place like this, especially after the truth he had revealed about his "forbidden romance" with Lady Sybil.

"When did it happen?" William asked, his voice so soft Tom thought at first it was the wind, howling somewhere far in the distance.

Tom swallowed. "Near Christmas," he answered.

William's eyes widened just slightly. "So…roughly then, a year ago?"

Tom nodded turned his face away from his friend to the cloudy horizon, wondering if he was facing northwest, the direction to Yorkshire, to Downton Abbey, where his beloved remained, where she was waiting for him…and where he would never see her again.

"Tell me about it, Tom…please," William whispered.

He didn't want to tell him; he didn't want to remember that night and everything that transpired upon it, but because he had never discussed it with anyone, and because there was a deep longing in him to purge that night from himself, he opened up and began to tell William the whole, sad story. How his happiness was stolen from him, and he was forced to make a terrible choice…

* * *

><p><em>December, 1916<br>Downton Abbey_

Was under the Renault when he heard her footsteps (and judging by the sound of them, she was angry about something). He slid out just when she entered, slamming the garage door behind her. "Honestly! Mama can be SO INFURIATING!"

Tom rose to his full height and grabbed a nearby rag to wipe his hands, watching as Sybil paced back and forth. He knew her well enough to know that she would tell him what it was that her mother had done, that he just needed to be patient and wait. He looked at her and despite the state she was, couldn't' help but smile in admiration, finding her lovely in all the frocks she wore, but there was something about seeing her in her uniform that always caused his heart to race a little more (and for his blood to heat up as well).

"Mama spoke to Dr. Clarkson…" Sybil finally began, and Tom felt his chest deflate a bit as he had a feeling he knew what this was about. "She rang the hospital to try and 'talk him out of keeping me so late'," she groaned, rolling her eyes. "And that was how she learned that my shift wasn't until midnight like I had told her, but that it ended at seven, which of course means I can be here for dinner, instead—"

"Instead of going to the pictures," Tom finished for her, putting the rag down.

Sybil did pout at that. "Yes," she muttered. "And I was looking forward to our evening out."

"As was I," he sighed, before sitting down on the bench and patting his knee, smiling as Sybil came to him, pout and all, and took her place on his lap. "We'll find another time," he murmured, trying to remain positive, though he understood her disappointment. Their opportunities alone were few and far between.

Sybil was still fuming, and Tom knew it was more than just the disappointment of losing a chance to be together. "I still can't believe Mama did that, though! How humiliating; I'm a grown woman, my own person! This is my work, not something frivolous!"

He ran his hand up and down her back, which did help with soothing her. She looked at him and her expression softened. She leaned in then and he smiled as finally, they shared a kiss for that day. "Thank you for putting up with my complaints."

"Not at all, love; I do understand and I don't blame you for being upset."

"It's all because of Evelyn Napier," Sybil sighed again. "He's coming to Downton tonight for dinner—bringing some army friends, apparently. Mama wants all of us there."

Tom just nodded. "Do I need to go to the station to drive them back?"

Sybil shook her head. "No, Evelyn has his own car and he'll be driving. I confess, while Evelyn is a good friend of the family's, I'm already bored to tears at the thought of tonight," she looked at him and a smile began to creep up at the corners of her mouth. "Well…I'll leave early; after dinner is finished, I'll mention a headache and come see you then."

"You don't need to do that; I mean, don't get me wrong, I would love it, but I don't want you risking anything for my sake, either."

_"Our_ sake," Sybil emphasized, though she did seem to understand what he meant. The truth was, they had had several close calls and really did need to be more careful. But it was difficult, much more so than Tom had originally thought, both in keeping their courting a secret…as well as keeping their passions contained.

While such things hadn't really been spoken, Tom did hope that Sybil knew that when he told her that he loved her, he didn't just mean "for now", but "for always". He wanted them to build a life together; he wanted to marry her, to share his future with her. He hadn't proposed, but he knew that he would. But he also knew that Sybil was very much enjoying her new "freedom", working as a nurse, and she was very good at her job, a blind man could see that. He'd not "pluck her up" from that yet, and he knew she wouldn't want to think about such things yet until the War was over (though when that would be? Who knows).

"What's that?"

Tom looked at her, and then glanced behind him at the large, cream envelope that had gotten her attention.

"Nothing," he told her, perhaps a bit too quickly.

Sybil lifted an eyebrow at that. "Have you opened it?"

"No," he answered honestly.

"Then how can you know it's 'nothing'?"

He was "saved" in having to answer that question when footsteps approaching the garage could be heard outside. Sybil leapt off his lap and quickly moved to the other side the garage, making it look as if she were in search of something, while Tom crouched down by a tire, as if inspecting it. It was one of the hallboys, who didn't even glance at Sybil, just made some mention about Lady Edith needing the car, before returning to his duties. As soon as the hallboy was gone, Sybil sighed and said, "Edith will probably want you to drive her to Ripon so she can find a Christmas present for Sir Anthony."

Tom cocked his eyebrow at this. "That serious?"

Sybil smiled at that. "Apparently; though she doesn't say so, I think she's hoping for a proposal come Christmas."

"And Lady Mary and Mr. Matthew?"

Sybil did laugh. "Perhaps them as well, who knows? Perhaps both my sisters will be greeting the new year as engaged women." Her smile did fade a little at that, and Tom felt his face redden slightly. Maybe he should take this moment now and propose to her? Though it would be daft; he didn't even have a ring! Still…he loved her and was willing to wait forever for her—

"I…I know that it seems like such an impossible thing to wish for, but…" Sybil paused and looked deeply into his eyes from across the garage. "But I do envy their freedom of being out in the open with the men they fancy, while we must hide and pretend otherwise."

Tom looked down. "Sybil, I—"

"Oh Tom, forgive me, I…I'm being selfish," she dismissed, blushing deeply. "I don't like deceit, yet I know we depend upon it so much right now. I'm being unfair."

"No, love, I do understand…and…and maybe…maybe I can try to find something else? A different kind of work? And once I do find something, I can hand in my notice, and then we can tell your family—"

"Branson?"

It was Lady Edith's voice; she was growing impatient and had come around to the garage. Both Tom and Sybil muttered a curse, before looking at each other, leaning in for one more kiss, and then parting and once again, going back to their roles of "Lady and Chauffeur" just as Lady Edith entered.

That afternoon, Sybil went to the hospital to work and he drove Lady Edith to Ripon, just as Sybil had predicted. It was half-past five when they returned, and Mr. Napier's car was already parked in the garage by the time they returned. Lady Edith retreated into the house, and Tom returned to the garage, knowing he would have to face that envelope at some point, but hating it all the same.

Parliament had passed a law in regards to conscription; men were now being recruited whether they wanted to go to war or not. He had little doubt that was what this envelope contained…

Now what? Now what was he going to do? Tom flung the letter aside and glared at it angrily as his brain tried to decide what the next best course of action would be?

Yet his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of slippered feet running along the gravel outside, and he bolted upright and rushed to the garage door, opening and staring wide-eyed at a pale-looking Sybil who didn't' stop running until she was safely inside the garage. "Sybil?" he shut the door and turned to face her. "Sybil, what's the matter—?"

She crashed into him, and he didn't hesitate, he wrapped his arms around her and held her close and tight. "Love, you're trembling," he whispered, and without another thought, he reached over and grabbed his livery jacket, bringing it up around her shoulders, and wrapping her in that as well.

Was she crying? He heard sniffles. His hands moved to gently cup her face, to look into her eyes, but he didn't see tears there, though he did see a mixture of anger and fear. "Sybil, what happened?"

She took a few deep breaths before finally managing to answer. "Larry Grey is here."

Tom felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach. It had been a long time since that name had been mentioned, and he would have died a happy man without having to hear it ever again.

"I…I don't understand, how…why…?"

Sybil buried her face against his chest. "He came with Evelyn; he's a major now, and they're in the same unit," she groaned. "Mama and Papa had no idea he was coming—I did tell them last year, after he kissed me? I did tell them about what he had done, but…Papa doesn't want to appear 'rude' to our guests," she muttered in angry disgust, an emotion Tom returned very much. Far be it for the fine name of Downton to be looked down upon than for the Earl of Grantham's daughter to be made uncomfortable by the presence of that snake!

"When I saw him, I…I honestly thought I was going to be sick. I told them I was ill, and it wasn't a far stretch of the truth. But I couldn't do it; I couldn't face him, sitting across from me and…and just…"

"It's alright love," he murmured, tightening his arms around her. "You don't have to face him if you don't want to."

She seemed to appreciate his words, and she snuggled all the closer to him…though he did feel her stiffen suddenly, and he opened his mouth to ask her if something else were wrong…and that was when he realized she had seen it.

The envelope. The letter.

She grasped his shoulders and stared up at him, her eyes wide and her face pale. "Tom?" she whispered, searching his eyes for an answer.

He sighed and nodded. "I've been summoned."

One of Sybil's hands flew to her mouth, and the tears that hadn't fallen earlier began to descend quickly. "Oh God—"

"I'm not going."

She looked at him with confusion. He couldn't blame her; he was still trying to make sense of his decision, too. But he knew himself, knew his heart and prayed she would understand.

"I'm not going," he repeated again. "I refuse to fight in a war I don't believe in, or for a king and country that I don't regard as my own. I'm going to be a continuous objector."

"But they'll put you in prison—!"

"I'd rather prison than lose my life in some muddy trench."

"But you'll have a mark against you for the rest of your life!"

"At least I'll have a life," he muttered, though he knew it was easier to say that now, when he wasn't locked behind bars. "Besides, they'd have to catch me first."

That had not been something he had thought of carefully. In truth, it was a thought that had just come upon him now.

Sybil's eyes widened even more. "W-w-what?" she stammered.

He looked down at her, and even though he knew it was terrible timing, he couldn't stop himself by saying, "come away with me."

"What? Tom, what do you—?"

"Come away with me," he repeated. "Marry me; be my wife. We'll go leave this place, we'll leave England!"

"But they'll look for you in Ireland, surely?"

She sounded more cautious than doubtful; and she hadn't said "no", which he took for a good sign.

"Not Ireland," he told her, his heart breaking a little at the thought of possibly never seeing his family or stepping foot on the soil of his homeland again. But he knew he could face anything if she were with him. She was his strength; she had been for so long. "We'll go to America…I have a cousin in Boston, and you have your grandmother in New York…or we could go anywhere, really? But l will make something of myself, I promise—and…and I know you love what you do here, and I know I'm asking so much of you, to…to leave that all behind here, but…but remember what I said in York: _bet on me_…and I promise to devote every waking minute to your happiness."

She stared up at him, and he held his breath. What was she thinking? _It's too much, far too much_. Maybe he should go back and rephrase things? Tell her he would go on ahead, and then when the War was over, she could come to him; it would be just like when she was in York, only they would have to depend on letters to sustain them during the absence, but they could do that…couldn't they?

Of course, unlike York, there wouldn't be "weekly visits" to look forward to. There wouldn't be kisses to sustain them during their absences, and the thought of not being able to kiss her, even if it were only once a week was sheer agony. But they would do what needed to be done…but none of that mattered if she didn't' say "yes".

He swallowed and saw that she had closed her eyes, as if concentrating very deeply on what to say next. _You fool, it is too much! Go back and rephrase, assure her—_

"Yes."

It was so faint, he had barely heard her. But when she opened her eyes, he saw the very essence of her answer gleaming back at him.

"Sybil?" he whispered, not daring to hope.

But hope did flood him, especially when her smile broke across her face. "I'm ready to travel, Mr. Branson. And you're my ticket."

A groan of relief left his lungs and Tom wasted no time, his mouth finding hers in a deep, desperate kiss, and Sybil clung to him, eagerly returning it and moaning her pleasure as their kiss deepened all the more, one arm around her waist, pulling her even closer, while the other hand cupped her head, his fingers threading into her hair, the pins falling out, causing her hair to cascade down her shoulders. If she cared, she didn't say anything, she just clung to him even tighter, and like so many other times, their passions threatened to burst. He had her pressed against the car, and she wouldn't let him go. They kept kissing, more and more, completely lost in each other…and not hearing the door open until it was too late.

"GET YOUR GRUBBY HANDS OFF HER!"

Tom was ripped away from Sybil, her scream filling his ears as Larry Grey's fist made contact with his face.

_To be continued..._


	7. Chapter 7

_And now the explanation to *how* Tom got involved in fighting for the British..._

* * *

><p>Chapter Seven<p>

Tom was met with quiet once again, though this time it was because William seemed to be far too shocked at his revelation.

"Good God…" William whispered, something which Tom did find a little ironic, coming from an angel, but chose to keep the comment to himself. William then surprised him by reaching out and clutching at his arm. "Then what?"

Tom sighed, looked ahead at the foggy trench, and after stuffing his hands into his pockets, began to walk, as if he had somewhere to go. William immediately caught up with him and matched his stride, and for a while, both of them just did that…walked. But Tom knew William was waiting patiently for him to continue with his story, and finally reveal at last, what brought him to France and dropped him in the middle of this war.

"Eventually…I came to," he began, his jaw cracking slightly as he fuzzily recalled Larry Grey and several other men leaping upon him and seeming to take great pleasure in beating him. _Three against one; no doubt in their eyes that was fair. _"And I quickly realized…I was no longer in the garage at Downton."

William didn't ask for him to clarify; where else would he be? Tom remembered that moment as if it were yesterday. His eyes were swollen over from the bruises that covered his face; he could taste dried blood on his cracked lip, and his body was in such agony, he could only imagine the blue and purple blemishes that covered him from head to toe.

Any confusion he had felt at first disappeared as he remembered Sybil, somewhere off to the side, struggling against Mr. Napier who was holding her back, Mr. Grey telling Mr. Napier to take her back to the house, Sybil screaming the entire time…

"I was lying on a cot and rolled right off, falling onto my hands and knees, and then I heard his voice, telling me to 'get up'—"

"Whose voice?"

Tom closed his eyes and sighed. "Lord Grantham," he finally answered.

Silence passed between them for a moment. In all his time at Downton, Tom had never seen Lord Grantham speak harshly to William or overhear him speak ill of the footman. And despite what had transpired between both he and the Earl, Tom still, even now, stood by what he had said to Sybil once upon a time, about thinking Robert Crawley a decent employer, and so he regretted a little, in condemning the man before an angel. But William wanted to know his story, and it would be impossible to tell it without mentioning what had transpired in that prison cell…

* * *

><p><em>December, 1916<br>Downton Village Prison…later that night_

"GET UP!"

Tom lifted his head from where he had fallen, and squinted through his swollen eyes at the face of Sybil's father, who was sitting in a chair, gripping a walking stick and glaring back at him in both bewilderment and resentment.

"How dare you…" Lord Grantham began. "How DARE YOU attack my daughter!"

It was hard to speak, but he would not be silent. "I…" he coughed. "I DIDN'T attack her," he defended.

Lord Grantham snorted at this. "Larry said you were found pressing her against a car; that your…" he gritted his teeth then. "That your…hands…were all over her!"

"No," Tom growled, despite the pain he was in. No point in hiding and holding back now!

Lord Grantham's eyes widened and he shot to his feet. _"You deny it!?"_

"I love Sybil—"

"_Lady_ Sybil," Lord Grantham growled.

"I love her," Tom pressed forward. "And _she_ loves _me!"_

At that, Lord Grantham began to laugh. "This is…this is a folly! A ridiculous, juvenile mess!"

Now Tom was the one gritting his teeth. "It's the truth," he growled. "I love her and I've asked her to marry me—"

"Good God!" Lord Grantham's laugh grew even louder. "This is…this is…this is utter madness!" He continued to laugh and Tom continued to seethe. "I…I feel like 'Alice' having fallen down the rabbit hole…"

So did he; a mad spiral down a bottomless pit. "She's accepted—"

"Out of the question!" Lord Grantham snarled, all traces of laughter now gone. He glared at Tom, and despite his haggard state, Tom did his best to straighten himself and lift his chin. As much as Lord Grantham may wish to deny it, the truth of the matter was that his youngest daughter was in love with the chauffeur and had had agreed to marry him, even if sadly, nothing now came of it.

Lord Grantham looked at him with narrowed eyes. "I can't believe it," he muttered, shaking his head and looking disappointed. "I can't believe that…that this entire time while you've been bowing and scraping, you've also been seducing my daughter behind my back—"

"I DON'T BOW AND SCRAPE!" Tom roared, gripping the bars of his cell, spit flying from his mouth and hitting Lord Grantham in the face. Good; let me have the satisfaction of watching him remove his handkerchief to wipe it away. His grip on the bars remained firm, even when a prison guard appeared in the doorway behind Lord Grantham, holding a stick and looking ready to use it on his fingers should the Earl give the word. But Lord Grantham did no such thing; he removed his handkerchief as Tom had predicted, and wiped his face clean, all the while glaring back at him.

"I don't bow and scrape…" Tom repeated, his voice lower in volume, but still hot and angry. "And give your daughter _some_ credit for knowing her own mind!"

At this, Lord Grantham's eyes widened in shock. Clearly the man was not used to be spoken back to, especially by a former servant. "How dare you speak to me in that tone!" he growled. "I should leave you to rot in this place! It's what you deserve!"

Tom had honestly heard enough. He wasn't prepared to listen to insults, so he turned his back on his former employer, but was stopped short by Lord Grantham's question.

"I understand that you received your summons?"

How did he…? Tom shook his head. The envelope had been left in the garage. Clearly they had found it.

"That's your saving grace, then," Lord Grantham went on. "Otherwise, I would press charges and make sure you spent the rest of your life in a place like this."

Tom looked over his shoulder, and suddenly he felt a great sense of "joy" in telling this man who wanted more than anything to go back to war and fight but who had been denied because of his age, that he…a young, able-bodied man, had absolutely no intentions of answering his summons.

"However, I have been told that you will not go."

Tom was taken by surprise. What? How…how did Lord Grantham know—?

"Sybil told me."

At the mention of her name, Tom gripped the cell bars once more and pressed himself forward. "Where is she? What did you do to her?" His face paled at the thought of her being in a space that was shared with Larry Grey.

Lord Grantham stiffened and looked back at him, somewhat offended by Tom's "implication". "She's _safe;_ she's in her room, _where she should be!" _

"She's in a prison, no different than me," he muttered.

"How dare you—!"

"How dare _you!"_ Tom countered, growling back at Lord Grantham. "How dare you let _that bastard_ sit at your dinner table after what he did to her! How dare you put your pride and the reputation of Downton ahead of your own daughter!"

"ENOUGH!" Lord Grantham roared, and Tom swore that the prison walls shook. But he held his ground, never blinking, never flinching, just staring back at his judge and jailer, all traces of respect gone. He had nothing to left to lose…

Both men continued to glare at each other, Lord Grantham's chest rising and falling as he breathed, his jaw tense, not unlike Tom's. Then…he sank back down onto his chair, and muttered something to the guard who was standing just a few feet behind him (Tom and forgotten all about the man), and the guard murmured something in return, before glaring at Tom himself…and taking hold of the door which he had opened to enter…and shutting it behind him, leaving both earl and chauffeur in private._ Now what?_

"…You say you love my daughter?"

Tom was surprised by Lord Grantham's question, but quickly overcame it and with his head held high, answered, "Aye; with my whole heart."

Lord Grantham eyed him for a moment. "Sybil said something very similar," he muttered, which Tom couldn't help but smile at. Even if she were locked up, he could easily imagine the fire in her eyes as she glared back at her father, demanding his release and that she be taken to him, defending him and condemning Mr. Grey, and when confronted by her family and told that she was being foolish and that this was all just some late-blossoming adolescent phase she was going through, he could practically hear the echo of her words as she put them all I their place_. That's my girl…_

"This is what comes from spoiling her," Lord Grantham muttered, more to himself than Tom. "The mad clothes, the nursing—"

"Oi!" he interrupted, glaring at the Earl. "Don't talk about her like that," he growled. "She's a wonderful nurse—and shame on you for not seeing it. Shame on you and anyone else for overlooking who she really is."

He expected another roar from the Earl for his bold words. At the very least, he expected a retort of some kind. But instead, he was met with silence, and Robert Crawley simply seemed to eye him for a moment, as if…assessing something.

"You said earlier that you love Sybil with your 'whole heart', is that right?"

What was he getting at? "Aye…"

"And clearly you 'love' her enough that you were willing to stay here to be with her, even though you knew that by doing so, it put you at risk for being summoned by the army…"

What was he talking about? What was he trying to say?

"So by that conclusion, you 'love' Sybil more than you love your precious Ireland."

Tom growled, not liking one bit the way the Earl of Grantham spoke of his homeland. "I love Sybil with my entire being…with all that I am, is that what you want to hear?"

"Is ANY of this ANYTHING a parent wishes to hear?" Lord Grantham muttered, though again he was looking at Tom with some sort of…interest. "Prove it to me."

Tom's brow furrowed. "Prove it to you?" he repeated. What did he mean by that? Prove what to him?

"Prove to me how much you love my daughter."

Tom's eyes widened. Seriously? Lord Grantham was asking him to—

"Answer your summons, and join the British Army."

Despite his swollen eyes, Tom blinked. Had…had he just heard…?

"Answer your summons, and join the British Army," Lord Grantham repeated. "Go and fight and do your part."

_ "My part!?"_ Tom spat, bile rising up in his stomach at Lord Grantham's insinuation. "Fight for a country that isn't my own? For a government that denies basic freedoms to Irish—"

"I thought you loved Sybil more than Ireland?"

Tom's words died in his throat. He stared at Lord Grantham…and began to realize just what the man was doing.

He had him trapped. Lord Grantham was trying to prove a point, trying to get Tom to say something and "prove" that he didn't really love Sybil, that this was just him trying to "seduce" her, while at the same time, watch him struggle while trying to be true to himself and his beliefs.

This was further proven, when Lord Grantham softly explained, "If you love my daughter as deeply as you claim to, then that means that you would put her before anything else…including your opinions and values, is that not so?"

Oh God in heaven…

"So…prove it to me, Branson; prove to me that you are willing to set those values aside, that you are willing to sacrifice your beliefs, in the name of 'love', and answer your summons."

Tom stared, his mouth open but no sound coming out.

_Don't do it. Part of what Sybil loves about you is your beliefs and principles, even if she doesn't agree with all of them. You wouldn't want her to sacrifice those very things for you!_

"If I do this…" Tom managed to find his voice. "What does that mean for us?"

Lord Grantham frowned. "Us?"

Tom lifted his chin. "For Sybil and myself."

Lord Grantham eyed him for a moment…and rose to his feet, taking a tentative step towards the bars that separated the both of them. "…If you do this...join the army, go to war…and come back when it's all finished…" he paused and Tom pressed his bruised face against the bars, holding his breath. "…Then…then you and Sybil will have my blessing."

A long, ragged breath left his lungs then.

_"You and Sybil will have my blessing…"_

"You mean that?" Tom whispered, not daring to hope but needing to hear Lord Grantham further explain himself.

At his question, the man seemed to bristle. "Of course I mean it," he muttered. "Go and fight; survive the War, and when you come back—_IF_ Sybil still wills it…then…then I'll not stand in your way. I will let you then marry my daughter."

Tom wanted to retort that neither he nor Sybil needed his blessing, but sadly, Tom knew that they still needed Lord Grantham's permission, as Sybil wasn't yet twenty-one.

"You're hoping I die over there…" Tom whispered.

Lord Grantham gasped, looking most offended at the accusation. "I…I wouldn't…" he coughed and took a few steps back. "Look, Branson, I'm providing you a chance here, a _real_ chance! Go and fight and again, if Sybil still claims to love you—"

"She does," Tom growled. And I will bet on her every time…

The Earl's jaw cracked, but he didn't try to retort further. "You really have no other choice; if you refuse this offer, then I _will_ make sure you spend the rest of your life rotting in a prison," he growled. "And there will be no hope for you and Sybil then."

Of all his threats, Tom knew this to be Lord Grantham's greatest. He had no doubt the man would make good on it, and see that he was locked away forever, pressing charges that he had attacked Sybil, perhaps even going so far that he had been "successful" in "seducing" her, while at the same time painting him as a villain for being a contentious objector. Yes, there was little doubt that Lord Grantham would do all these things…all in an effort to keep he and Sybil apart.

And he knew that his chances of surviving in the War were extremely slim. If he took this offer, he would more or less be signing his death warrant, which was exactly what Lord Grantham was hoping, even if the man refused to admit it.

_Don't do it! Sybil will never forgive you for doing it!_

But what other choice did he have?

Right now…it was the only option that had a possible future for the both of them.

"GUARD!"

His shout startled Lord Grantham, and the guard came rushing back inside, looking confused. "Your Lordship, is something wrong—?"

"Do I have your word, then?" Tom asked Lord Grantham, ignoring the guard but grateful for his presence because he knew it would make lying more difficult if the Earl of Grantham was not being truthful with his offer. And didn't his kind always think they have a monopoly on honor? "On your honor as a gentleman," Tom pressed forward. "And before this witness, do I have your word that if I do as you ask, answer my summons and join the army and go to fight…that when I return—"

"_If_ you return," Lord Grantham corrected.

"_**When**_ I return," Tom countered. "That you will give both Sybil and I your blessing, and not try to stop us from getting married?"

The guard's eyes widened and now both his and Tom's eyes were locked on Lord Grantham, waiting for his answer. He may have set a trap for Tom just now, but Tom had found a way to drag him into that same trap.

After what seemed like another endless pause, Lord Grantham let out a sigh and then nodded his head. "Yes…you have my word."

Tom thrust his hand through the bars, holding it out for Lord Grantham to shake, ignoring the guard's warning to pull it back into the cell.

Holding his gaze, the Earl took Tom's hand, shaking it briefly, before releasing it and lifting a quizzical eyebrow. "So? Does this mean what I think it means?"

Tom swallowed, wondering if he should pinch himself to make sure this wasn't a nightmare. But before he could second-guess himself another time, he looked directly into the other man's eyes and stated as firmly as his voice would allow, "Aye…I'll take your offer. I _will_ fight."

_To be continued…_


	8. Chapter 8

_Sorry for the delay with this one. We have one more chapter left after this! But until we reach the end, here's the essence of mimijag's prompt, set on the night before Tom goes to war. And in case you're wondering...**this chapter is rated M** ;o)_

* * *

><p>Chapter Eight<p>

Silence filled the space between them.

They had both stopped walking (nothing seemed to have changed around them; they were still in that foggy, muddy trench), and Tom turned his eyes at last to William, to gage his reaction to his revelation of just how exactly he had come to be here. "Now you know…" he murmured at last, to which William nodded, his expression unreadable.

"Indeed I do," his friend replied. "And now I understand why you told me this story in the manner that you did, starting with that last Servant's Ball where you and Lady Sybil stole a dance…the two of you growing closer, eventually admitting your love for her to yourself, before confessing it out loud to her…and she returning it."

"And receiving my summons…asking her to marry me…being caught kissing her and thrown into prison," Tom continued, his tone cold and his eyes growing sadder with each passing word.

"And being offered a choice," William concluded, though at this, Tom snorted.

"What choice? There was no 'choice', not really; I could either stay in prison and be separated from her for the rest of my life…or go to war and be separated from her for all eternity." Which is what had happened, he bitterly thought. Oh God…would they tell her? How was Sybil to know? He could see Lord Grantham keeping such news from her; perhaps creating a lie that he had left her, either found another woman to warm his bed, or had abandoned her completely for a new life without her. Though Sybil would know better, surely? She would not give him up, she had told him she wouldn't, she had told him how valiantly she fought against her father, how she shamed him for what he did.

But who would tell her? Would she be left to learn the sad truth on her own? That thought broke his heart more than any other; Sybil waiting for him to return…forced to search for the truth when no one else would tell her…and then facing her grief completely on her own, without family to support her when she needed it most. _Damn Robert Crawley_, Tom bitterly thought.

"What happened after you agreed to his Lordship's offer?" William asked, breaking through Tom's thoughts.

Tom sighed, his mind going back to that night once again. "The next day I went straight to medical; then a car took me directly to Richmond, driven by someone I didn't know, and who refused to answer any questions I had about Sybil."

William's eyes widened at that. "So you didn't see her before you left Downton?"

Tom shook his head. "No…though I kept hoping she would come. I stayed awake that entire night, hoping and praying she would come bursting in, that she had somehow managed to escape Downton. And when I was taken for my medical, I kept looking around, my heart racing at every nurse that passed, hoping one of them was her…" he let out a long, weary sigh. "But Lord Grantham was sure to keep us separated, I have no doubt. I feared that maybe he hadn't told her what had happened to me, that maybe she thought I had gone back to Ireland without saying anything to her, or that…or that his Lordship had 'paid me off' to leave them alone."

"But you must have seen her," William insisted. "Earlier you said that the last time you had seen her was February…yes?"

_February_. Tom's face burned hotly at _that_ particular memory. "Aye," he whispered. "We did see each other…just before I left," he explained. _On the night before I was shipped off_.

William smiled at this revelation, though he also looked a bit hesitant. "Was this also the first time the two of you had seen each other since you left for Richmond?"

Tom nodded. He had spent a month and a half in his training; the army was eager to send all of their newest recruits to the front lines as soon as possible. And unlike most of the lads with whom he trained with (boys, really, who didn't have a great deal of experience when it came to loading and reloading guns by themselves) he was pushed to the front of his group, which meant they could send him sooner rather than later.

"How did that happen?" William asked, sitting down on a stone that just seemed to appear out of the fog. "She must have come to you in Richmond; after everything you told me, I can't imagine his Lordship letting you back at Downton."

Tom did chuckle at that…before his face softened at the memory of the last time he had seen Sybil.

…The last time he would ever see Sybil.

"She did come to Richmond," Tom whispered, his eyes looking off into the distance as the memory painted itself to life before his eyes. "It was a complete surprise too…"

_A complete and wonderful surprise…_

* * *

><p><em>February, 1917<br>Richmond_

Tom entered the pub, his eyes wide and desperate as he looked around. The place was crowded, most of the patrons being soldiers like himself, men in uniform, some of whom would be leaving tomorrow like him; leaving for France and quite possibly, never returning.

Why had his mother asked him to meet her here? Why had his mother come at all? It was a complete shock when the telegram arrived that afternoon.

_Mrs. Branson is at The Knight's Heart [STOP]  
>Will wait for you to meet her [STOP]<em>

He couldn't believe it; his mother was here, in England, in RICHMOND! How had she gotten the money to travel? And why hadn't she told him in her last letter that she was coming? His mother was devastated when she learned he would be fighting in the War. He had told her, and the rest of his family, that he had received his summons and there was no way to avoid it; he'd have to go. He had failed to mention that he had been "bribed" in a manner of speaking, by his former employer to join and fight. Was that why his mother was there? Had she somehow learned the truth?

Tom made his way through the crowd to the bar, where a barman busily poured drinks for a group of soldiers who were looking for some liquid courage before heading to the abyss. "Excuse me!" he called out to the barman. "Has there been a woman here? A Mrs. Branson?"

The barman looked confused by Tom's question, but upon hearing the name, his eyes widened in recognition. "Oh yes! Yes, she's been waiting for you since half-past four."

Oh God, his mother had been sitting here for that long?

"She's…ah! She's just over there," the barman pointed to a corner at the far end, a corner near the fireplace. Tom turned and peered through the crowd, thanking the barman before moving through it, trying to catch a glimpse of her.

…But it was his mother that he saw when he approached. And he thought his knees might buckle beneath him when his eyes rested upon her beautiful face.

"S-S-Sybil?" he stammered in disbelief.

She blushed and rose to her feet from the corner which she occupied. "I went ahead and ordered you a pint of Guinness," she told him, glancing at the glass beside her. "Though that was well over an hour ago…I'm not sure if it's any good," she sheepishly murmured.

He honestly couldn't care less about the Guinness. In two strides he was by her side, his arms wrapped tightly around her, lifting her off the ground and burying his face upon that place where her neck and shoulder met.

She was here. Sybil was here! This wasn't a dream, this was very real, and God, how he had missed her!

Sybil happily clutched him, her arms tightening around him, one of her hands rising up to cradle the back of his head, her fingers threading through the cropped strands of his hair. "They've cut your hair," she murmured, and then she was grasping his shoulders, pushing him away just slightly so she could look at him. "You're bigger…" she observed, which made them both blush. He was always "stocky", as his mother called him; broad and muscular, something he had inherited from his grandfather who came from cow-rearing folk. But since his training, it was true, his muscles had gotten bigger, and he bit back the pleasured groan that threatened to escape at the feel of his beloved's fingers falling down his arms and unconsciously (or perhaps quite consciously) squeezing and caressing the muscles beneath his shirt.

She bit her lip and looked up at him. "Forgive me for saying this, but…you do look rather fetching in your uniform."

Tom blinked…and then found himself laughing at her words, before taking her face in his hands and finally ending their torment and bringing their lips together at last. The kiss was long, deep, and sweet. Time did seem to slow, and the world around them did seem to fade away, even after their lips parted so that they could breathe and look at each other once again.

"Mmmm…" Sybil practically purred. "I've missed kissing you…" She closed her eyes and tilted her face up, eagerly wanting another and he would have given it to her gladly, but there were questions that needed to be answered, and so he resisted the temptation and stroked her cheeks with his fingers until her eyes fluttered open and she was looking at him again.

"How did you get here? And that was you who sent the telegram, yes? I mean…you're 'Mrs. Branson', I'm not going to turn around and find that my mother is here too, am I?"

Despite all of his questions, Sybil did smile. "Yes, I did send the telegram, and since I am going to be 'Mrs. Branson' someday, I thought it appropriate to call myself so—not to mention it will raise fewer eyebrows than calling myself 'Lady Sybil Crawley'." Her smile faded then and she looked deeply apologetic. "I'm sorry though for tricking you and making you think your mother is here."

While he did desperately miss his family, he wasn't going to waste his time and energy on being melancholy, not when she was here.

"And as for me getting here…" she chewed on her bottom lip in a manner of one who looked a bit guilty. "No doubt by now Mama and Papa will have received a telephone call from Aunt Rosamond, expressing her sympathy for my illness which has kept me from coming to London at the last minute to visit with her, which will confuse them because as far as they know, I am in London right now, having seen me leave for the station this morning."

Tom blinked for several seconds as he took in everything she was saying. "But…but how did you know I would still be here?"

She waved a hand in the air rather dismissively. "That was the easiest part, actually. Dr. Clarkson has a record of all the soldiers who come from Downton; I simply telephoned and explained that I was a nurse from the hospital here, and needed some information for your records, and that was how I learned when you would be leaving, most likely."

She made it all sound so…natural. Clearly this was not something she thought on a whim.

To say he was impressed would be an understatement. Impressed…and rather humbled by the work she had put in to arrange this meeting.

"…I still don't care for deceit," Sybil murmured to herself, her expression changing to one of sadness. "But after what Papa has done…I don't really feel guilty about it anymore."

Her tone was harsh and bitter, especially at the mention of her father. Tom sighed and wrapped his arms a little bit tighter, wishing despite his own anger and bitterness towards the man, Sybil could be spared of such feelings. "So he told you then?" he asked her. "Told you that I had joined the army?"

Sybil sighed and leaned forward to rest her head against his shoulder. "He did, though not entirely at first. He told me that you had chosen to do 'the honorable thing' which was answer your summons to fight for 'king and country', when I knew that was utter nonsense, so I pressed further, and finally…perhaps out of irritation by my persistence, he revealed that you had given him a choice: rot in prison or go to war." He felt her body tense as she spoke, and she lifted her head and looked back at him with what he could only conclude was a bit of anger at him. "Why, Tom? WHY did you agree to do it? You said to me that night that you'd rather go to prison than fight in this war!?"

"I know," he sighed. "But…keep in mind that was when I thought I would only be dealing with the British government and _not_ your father." Yet it was clear to him that Lord Grantham had left out a very vital piece of information. "I don't suppose your father told you that he and I struck a deal?"

Her brow furrowed at his question. "Deal? What deal?"

Just as he had suspected. Thank God Sybil did go to all this trouble; otherwise they wouldn't be having this conversation where he would reveal to her his sole reason for agreeing to do go through all this.

"Your father said that if I did this…answer my summons and go and fight…should I survive, he'd not stand in our way."

It was Sybil's turn to blink in surprise. "W-w-what?"

"He'd not stop us; he would grant the permission needed if it was needed," he explained, specifically thinking about the fact that Sybil wasn't quite yet twenty-one. However, depending on how much longer this war lasted, that wouldn't be an issue after this summer. "And I had him swear it to me, Sybil, to give me his word. I even called a guard to witness it."

She seemed to have gone numb at this revelation, and Tom inwardly cursed himself for his short-sightedness. He thought the news might make her happy, to know there was a positive outcome, but instead, Sybil whispered with a trembling lip, "This is all my fault."

Tom's eyes widened and he quickly began to shake his head. "No, love, no, this isn't your fault—"

"It is!" Sybil insisted, tears beginning to fall down her cheeks. "Because of me, you're being forced to go and fight in a war you don't support, for a cause you don't believe!"

_"I_ made that decision, Sybil, not you—you _didn't_ force me to do anything; I chose to do this."

Sybil snorted at that. "Life in prison or risking your life on the battlefield…I don't call that much of a choice," she muttered in disgust.

Nor did he, if he were honest with himself. But he was trying to find something positive in the midst of this nightmare, on his last night before he was to be taken to the gates of hell.

"I'll never forgive him for this…" Sybil's voice echoed after a moment, despite the growing noise in the pub around them.

Tom closed his eyes and sighed, wishing more than ever he could somehow heal this rift for her, but as much as he wished it, he knew it wasn't for him to do. Robert Crawley held all the cards in that front, he had the power to accept his daughter's choices, including her choice to love and marry the Downton chauffeur if she so wished. A part of him regretted in telling her this, but better that she know, he thought, especially since she was being purposefully left in the dark about the possibility that they could be together without further issue…

If he survived.

_You have to survive,_ a voice screamed inside him. _You _have_ to!_

"You must come back to me," Sybil's voice echoed that one he heard screaming, and Tom looked down at her, her eyes wide and desperate and looking deeply into his, pleading as she clutched the collar of his uniform. "I know one shouldn't make promises about such things, but I don't care—promise me you'll come back, promise me that you'll survive and return? Please?"

As if he could deny her. "Oh my darlin'," he groaned, his heart heavy and his accent thick with emotion. He nodded his head, not trusting his voice right now, but silently vowed to her that he would do everything he could to make it through this, while at the same time praying that the war be over before he even arrived.

They held each other tightly then, their faces buried against each other's necks, their tears wetting the other's skin. Tom felt her lips nuzzle his neck, and likewise, his did the same. Eventually their mouths found each other at last, and both of them shared a deep, hungry kiss, their passions swelling and boiling and threatening to overflow.

"…I have a room," Sybil gasped when their lips parted so they could breathe. Tom's brow was resting against hers, but he lifted his head to look down at her, to make sure he hadn't misheard her.

"I have a room," she repeated. "Here, over the pub. I even registered myself as 'Mrs. Branson'."

Tom swallowed, his body trembling at what she was implying.

"When do you need to be back?" she asked him, glancing towards the pub at all the soldiers who were buying drinks to "celebrate" their last night in England.

He sucked in a breath. She _was_ implying what he thought. "Love, we don't have—"

"Even before you told me about what Papa promised you, I had already made this decision," she told him, her fingers holding fast to the lapels of his shirt. "Please, Tom? Please…stay with me tonight?"

Oh God, as if he could refuse that plea? As if he wanted to? And while staying with her didn't mean _that_ had to happen…he swallowed the somewhat nervous lump in his throat, knowing that indeed it would.

"Lead the way then, Mrs. Branson," was his answer, which did bring a smile to her face, and thus lifted his spirits, despite his initial nervousness at what lay ahead for them.

She grinned and leaned up on her toes to kiss him, before grabbing his hand, turning, and leading him away from the floor of the busy pub, leading him towards a staircase near the back that led to the rooms overhead. They both blushed as they passed a few of those rooms, the walls thin, thus revealing what was happening on the other side. Yet their steps seemed to quicken then, an eagerness filling them, and finally they reached the room which Sybil had purchased, and after fumbling with her key (he didn't help when he wrapped his arms around her, his hands caressing her waist, while his lips caressed her neck) they both stumbled inside, the door locking quickly, and Tom soon found himself pushed against it, Sybil's lips once again against his, kissing him deeply and desperately, while at the same time, tugging at the buttons of his uniform.

In his mind, he had imagined this moment countless times. Usually when he imagined it, they were both dressed quite differently; he in a good suit, her in a stunning white gown, her veil long since forgotten, lying on the floor. But there were times when he imagined the two of them like this in his cottage at Downton, or in the garage, or even sometimes in the backseat of the Renault, parked on some lonely country road that no other car passed.

He had never imagined it with him dressed like a soldier, in some pub in Richmond, on the night before he was to be shipped off to France. But no matter the setting, he was determined to be gentle, to be caring, to make this enjoyable for the both of them _(please God, don't let me muck this up!)_

His own hands were behind her, his left wandering up and down her spine, clutching at the fabric of her blouse, before moving down and cupping her rump, earning a delighted gasp from her lips. His right hand cradled her head, his fingers threading through her curls, freeing several from the simple bun she made (she was proud of the fact that she could dress herself and put up her own hair). Suddenly in that moment, he longed more than anything to see her hair, wild and free, flowing down and over her shoulders. She giggled against his lips as he brought his other hand up to carefully take her bun apart, more pins falling to the ground than anywhere else, but if Sybil cared, she didn't say anything.

Finally, she eased her face away from his and gave her head a shake, and his breath caught in his throat at the beautiful sight of the dark waves cascading down. He groaned and threaded his fingers through the rich mahogany curls, before covering her lips with his again, his tongue sliding and curling against hers, his body rocking against hers as she pressed herself against him. "Tom…" she moaned as his lips began to descend down her jaw, smiling at the gasp she made when he caught her earlobe. "Tom, please…"

His fingers were on the move again, sliding down her body once more and pulling at her blouse, untucking it from her skirt, just as her own fingers had managed to slip inside the shirt of his uniform, before running along the seams of his undershirt beneath.

She was attempting to push his unbuttoned shirt off his shoulders, just as his fingers came around to the front of her blouse. He stilled when he reached her collar, her breasts rising and falling in anticipation. "Yes…" she whispered against his lips. He lifted his head and looked down at her, her beautiful blue-gray eyes glazed with love and passion. "Yes, you can touch me…"

The groan that rose up from his throat at her invitation was lost in the moan that escaped her lips when his right hand slipped from the buttons to cup left breast.

Sybil bit her lip and practically purred as he gave her breast a light squeeze. _She's not wearing a corset,_ he happily realized, as he felt her nipple harden against his palm, despite the fabric that separated them. Now he was especially eager to remove her blouse! Though he was stopped short of proceeding (just momentarily) as Sybil pushed his shirt down and off his arms, leaving him in just a fitted undershirt.

Was it his imagination? Or did her eyes widen with pleasure at the sight of his exposed arms. She started to tug at his undershirt, clearly wanting to remove it, but it was his turn now; he needed to get her blouse off. So with somewhat clumsy fingers, he tugged at the buttons (losing at least two in the process), Sybil's own fingers rising to help him with the last few, and then finally, pulling the blouse away, leaving her in what he would forever think as a "most delightful undergarment".

"It's a brassiere," she explained with a deep blush, but also a beautiful smile.

He chuckled and nodded his head. "It suits you," he murmured, his eyes looking lovingly into hers, before drifting down to her new brassiere, and feeling himself harden even further at the tempting sight that waited before him.

With a blush, Sybil turned around until her back was to him. "It unhooks here," she explained, and Tom wasted no time in taking hold of the tiny hooks and loosening them, his fingers pausing to run over the creamy skin of her back _(so soft),_ before holding his breath as she bashfully slid the straps down her shoulders…before turning and facing him once again.

She didn't cover herself. In truth, she looked rather proud to be standing before him like this. And while his eyes did widen and his mouth fall open at the beautiful and erotic sight of her bare-breasted, he couldn't help but smile tenderly at her, his eyes meeting hers again and just…feeling overwhelmed by the love he saw reflected back at him.

He pulled his undershirt up and over his head, and now they were both naked from the waist up. Tom moved first, his hands sliding around her waist, groaning at the wonderful feel of her skin beneath his fingers, before pulling her flush against him, smiling at the gasp that escaped her lips as the hairs on his chest tickled her nipples. He closed his eyes and savored the feel of her, then tilted her head back to kiss her again, groaning against her mouth as their tongues "fought" for dominance, both of them submitting to the other, their hands clumsily running over their exposed backs and chests, while stumbling further into the room until the backs of his knees hit the bed, and he happily collapsed upon it, taking Sybil with him.

She now lay atop him, and they laughed while they continued to kiss…until the laughter became moans as Tom rolled them over, his mouth moving down her throat, kissing her shoulders, moving lower, hearing as well as feeling her heartbeat quicken as he kissed the swell of her breast.

"Tom!" she gasped when his lips closed over a nipple, his tongue circling it before drawing it into his mouth and softly sucking it. He glanced up at her and smiled, glad to see she was enjoying the sensation as much as he loved doing it. He continued pleasuring her breast, before moving to the other, his actions a little rougher as he took that nipple into his mouth, his suckling more ravenous than gentle, but Sybil's fingers raked through his hair and held him to her breast, whimpering how good it felt while her hips seemed to be moving on instinct, rocking against him as if in search for something.

His own were doing the same thing, though he knew exactly what he was in search of.

He kissed down the slopes of her breasts, down her stomach, while his fingers moved under her skirt, sliding along her stockings and going higher and higher, groaning at the feel of her thighs and the heat he could feel radiating from between her legs.

Sybil's breath hitched as the pad of his thumb ran over the fabric of her knickers. _God, she's so wet, _he groaned to himself. He wanted to join her, to make their bodies one so badly, but more than that, he wanted to give her pleasure, he wanted her to find her release before he found his, so without even undoing her skirt, he grabbed hold of her knickers and managed to wriggle them down, while pushing her skirt up, gasping as he finally laid eyes on the beautiful sight of her exposed flesh.

Sybil blushed and wriggled a bit, knowing he could see all of her. He felt her tense just slightly, but she relaxed (to a point) as he kissed the inside of her thigh. He had heard stories of men pleasuring women with their mouths, though he had never done so. But with Sybil, he found himself to be quite eager, and so tentatively at first, he kissed down her leg, moving closer and closer to her core, before letting his lips graze the flesh of her outer lips, smiling at her gasp, before nuzzling closer and dipping his tongue to taste her.

God, what a feast! Nothing in this world or the next could taste as sweet. He groaned and began to make love to her with his mouth, his tongue licking and thrusting through her delicious pink folds, before moving up and circling the swollen bud of her clitoris, the action causing her hips to thrust upward and a cry to burst from her throat. He wanted more, so moved closer, his hands gripping her hips and encouraging her legs to spread further, placing them on either of his shoulders, and he hummed and groaned into her body, sending shivers through her that also ran down his spine in delight at the pleasure he knew he was giving her based on the sounds she was making.

"Oooohhh God, Tom! TOM!" she gasped, one hand falling to his head and threading her fingers in his hair, as if trying to hold him in place.

He groaned her name against her flesh, and then slid a hand between her legs, surprising her as he thrust a finger inside her…and then added a second, pumping rhythmically in an effort to prepare her for later. His lips settled over her clit, his fingers thrusting harder and faster, and he smiled to himself as he felt her tremble and heard her cry, and then tasted her orgasm as it swept over and through her. He stayed there, between her legs, his licks and kisses gentler, but he did not move until her breathing seemed to have calmed.

"Tom…" she moaned for him, and he kissed up her body, smiling at the blush on her face and the bashful yet loving look in her eyes. "I…I've never…" she tried to explain but she didn't have to. He was so happy he could do that for her, and hoped before the night was over, he could pleasure again and again.

She grasped his head then and drew him back down to her, kissing him passionately and robbing him of breath. Instead of tiring her, he seemed to have awakened a sleeping dragon, which was a perfect description as she was all fire, and her hands were clawing at his back and what was left of his clothing.

"Christ!" he swore, when her hand, which had meant to be undoing his belt, dipped beneath his trousers and cupped his cock which was screaming for freedom at this point.

"Oooohhh my," Sybil gasped, grinning as she ran her fingers over his length. She was anything but shy, and God he loved her for it. "Mmmm…your muscles aren't the only thing that appear to have gotten bigger," she saucily flirted, which earned a groan and a gasp as she gave his flesh a squeeze. He grasped her wrist, not wanting to "finish" before they had gotten started, and leaned away just long enough to finish undoing his belt and shoving his trousers and drawers down his legs, while Sybil sat up just long enough to finish removing her skirt, though her stockings remained.

They collapsed together onto the bed, her legs seeming to know what to do as they moved to wrap around his body. He held her hip and his hand slid down her thigh, caressing and squeezing the flesh while his other hand took hold of his cock and ran it along the slick lips of her core, groaning at the feel of her.

"Wait!" Sybil gasped, causing him to freeze. Had she changed her mind?

She scrambled out from beneath him and he watched with confused eyes as she hurried across the room to her suitcase and fumbled through it…before grabbing a box and withdrawing a small envelope and bringing both back to bed.

He opened his mouth to ask what she was doing, but instead he gasped as she once again, without warning, took hold of him in her hand, caressing him as she handed him the tiny envelope. "French letters," she explained, blushing but smiling. "The hospital had a supply."

He swallowed and bit back his groan as he tried to concentrate on what she was telling him. "Smart," he panted, opening the envelope. He'd not deny either of them this night together, but he would not expose her to humiliation and ridicule by leaving her with child, especially if he didn't come back.

Sybil "helped" him slide the rubber on, though her "help" nearly caused him to spend before it was secure, and now that he...that they both were ready…they looked at each other…naked and trembling and lying together on a small bed, ready to cross that last bridge over the Rubicon.

"I love you…" Sybil whispered, breaking the silence at last.

He smiled back at her, and cupped her face. _"Is brea liom tu,"_ he whispered in return.

There were tears in her eyes, but he was glad to know they were tears of joy. "Make love to me, Tom; please? Please make love to me—"

He silenced her pleas with his lips, kissing her and rolling over her again, bringing his cock to her core once again, and while kissing her, joined his body at last with hers, earning a gasp and groan from both of them.

God help him, she was tight! But she felt wonderful and he thought he might cry at how good it felt. He looked down at her with concern, his lips kissing her cheeks, her eyes, her brow, hoping to soothe away any discomfort she was feeling. "Am I hurting you?" he asked. "I'll stop—"

"No!" she clutched him even tighter. "No, I'm fine…you're just…bigger than I expected," she explained, blushing deeply. "But please don't stop?"

He shook his head and kissed her again, softer, letting his lips linger, while he began to thrust his body in and out of hers, the rhythm slow at first, helping her adjust to the feel of him (and helping him from losing himself completely, which was proving to be a Herculean effort), but then h felt a hand cupping his arse and squeezing him, while her legs, which were already wrapped around his waist, tightened even more. "Mmmmm…more, Tom, please?"

"Does it…does it feel good?" he asked her, reading her face as he continued to move, and quicken his pace.

She nodded, gasping as he rolled his hips slightly. "Ooohhh yes, yes it does!"

He laughed and bent his head to kiss her, repeating the action and deepening his thrusts, his own hands falling down her body and cupping her backside, pulling her even closer as their bodies continued to rock. He was getting closer, but he didn't want to come without her. Sybil gasped as he brought their bodies up, leaning back on his haunches and she practically sitting up. He wriggled a hand between them then and found her clit and began worrying it in earnest while his lips kissed and sucked at her pulse point, his thrusts becoming more and more erratic. _Come for me, darling, please_, he silently begged.

"TOM!" she threw head back and screamed his name for all the world to hear, giving those couples from the other rooms a run for their money, and he gasped and felt himself go rigid as her body squeezed him while she shook with pleasure.

"SYBIL!" he grunted. "God, so good, Sybil, SO GOOD!"

He clung to her as the waves of his own orgasm claimed and crashed over him, before taking him back out to sea to drown in the love of his beautiful siren. They both held each other tightly, moaning the other's name, often paired with the Almighty's, while kissing whatever skin was exposed for their lips to kiss. And even after the last of the tremors left them, they still held each other tightly, committing this moment to memory.

She was murmuring something against his shoulder and Tom lifted his head, "what did you say love?"

She tilted her face back and he saw tears in her eyes, and for a moment he panicked, thinking he had hurt her, but then he saw the smile and knew again, that these weren't tears of pain or sadness, but pure love and joy over what they had shared together. Though her face did grow serious again as she repeated to him what he heard her mumble.

"Now you _must_ come back," she repeated. "I refuse to be a widow before I am a bride."

A bride who had just experienced her wedding night before their wedding. At least that was how it felt to him. "I will," he vowed, lacing their hands together and bringing her fingers to his lips, kissing the place where one day her wedding ring would rest. "I will."

She nodded her head, and then pulled him back to her, kissing him again until their bodies began to tingle with the desire for more. He had never rallied so quickly with the lovers of his past, but then perhaps that was simply because those lovers weren't Sybil?

"Do you have any more?" he asked her, and she grinned, knowing exactly what he meant.

"There are nineteen left," she answered, glancing at the box which was lying somewhat haphazardly on the bedside table.

Tom swore under his breath, earning a giggle from his beloved. "Well, we best get started then," he chuckled, reaching for the very box. He'd sleep on the boat tomorrow.

* * *

><p><em>To be concluded...<em>


	9. Chapter 9

_Ok, here it is...the last chapter! Though I will write up short epilogue too, and will try to post that late tonight. But other than that, this is it! Thank you for reading and following this story! And happy new year!_

* * *

><p>Chapter Nine<p>

All was still.

Tom sighed and lifted his eyes to the gray horizon. The morning he left for France was like this; still, quiet, gray. He had thought it perfect at the time, as leaving Sybil was like leaving color, music, and life behind. And in all honesty, he couldn't recall one day when the sun rose and shown warmth down upon them since he had arrived. He found it fitting, in many ways, that whatever lay beyond for him was equally cold and gray. It would be without Sybil, so…it just made sense.

"…And that was the last time you saw her," William whispered.

Tom didn't answer right away, but eventually gave a little nod of his head. "We did write," he told William. "I tried to pretend it was like the summer when she was in York," he chuckled to himself. "She told me about how she and Mrs. Crawley championed the cause to turn Downton into a convalescent home for recovering soldiers, about how Lady Mary and Mr. Matthew had formed an attachment again, and what was happening downstairs, such as Anna and Mr. Bates getting married. But mostly…" he paused, feeling a lump lodge in his throat and did his best to swallow past it. "Mostly…she wrote about her hopes and dreams for when I returned."

"And what were those hopes and dreams?" William asked.

His face still tilted to the sky, Tom closed his eyes, Sybil's lovely face immediately appearing.

"She talked about the jobs we would have…she would receive more training, take on more courses, become a 'proper' nurse; sometimes she imagined me working with cars, owning a garage and the two of us living in a flat above it…other times she imagined me going into politics—she thinks I have a talent for writing," he explained, chuckling again as he recalled that sweet letter. "She talked about our future home…the flat we would keep. Usually she envisioned us living in Ireland, but sometimes she talked about York…how York had such fond memories for us, that if we had to live in Britain, she felt we should live in York. And sometimes, she talked about us traveling…moving to America, or Canada, or even Australia…" his voice trailed off as he recalled another letter, one that tugged at his heart. "She talked about the family we would one day build together…the children we would have; sometimes she wanted a lot, other times she wanted our family to remain small." He opened his eyes then and looked back at William. "She did tell me that she _wasn't_ pregnant," he explained with a deep blush. It was a personal matter, but the Catholic in him felt he needed to confess this bit of information, especially to an angel.

"And you've continued to correspond?"

Sadness filled Tom at the question. He knew that there could be a great number of reasons to why he hadn't received a letter from her in three weeks, and Lord knows he wasn't always able to write to her, but…he couldn't help but think something had happened to suddenly bring her letters to a stop. Was it Lord Grantham? Had he stopped her? Confiscated the letters? Had his letters been reaching Sybil? What if Lord Grantham had confiscated them? Oh God…what if Lord Grantham had told Sybil he was dead, and thus that was the reason to why he hadn't received anything in three weeks?

"Tom?"

He looked back at William, who was still waiting for an answer. "We have," he finally answered, his voice shaky. "We…we've tried…" he murmured, softer but also a little truer to reality. "It's been three weeks since I last heard from her," he finally confessed. He had received letters from his mother; he had even received that bottle of whiskey from Kieran as a Christmas present. But Sybil? Something must have happened…

"War can sometimes make correspondence difficult…" William murmured, as if offering Tom some kind of "consolation", but it sadly wasn't working. It also didn't help the fact that he was dead now, and would never see her again.

"Do you doubt that she still loves you?"

The question caused Tom to whirl his head and stare at William with a mixture of shock and horror. "No!" he answered quickly, shaking his head almost violently. "No, not at all, I…I worry that something may have happened, an explanation to why her letters suddenly stopped, but no…" he shook his head again. "No, I don't doubt her or her feelings to me. Perhaps that sounds 'frightfully full of myself' but…just as I've asked her to 'bet on me', I bet on her too. Always."

At this, William smiled, and then rose from the place where he had been sitting. "By the way," he changed the subject. "That was a very brave thing you did."

Tom frowned. "Brave thing?"

William nodded. "For the boy, Marcus. You saved his life."

A small smile did curl at the corners of his lips at the mention of that. "He's a good lad. And he's so young."

"War makes all men 'young'," William whispered. That was true, Tom thought. At least Marcus would live another day, and God willing, be able to return home and see his family, including the girl he loved who thought of him as her sweetheart.

"As for your absence of letters," William spoke again. "I wouldn't worry too much. I'm sure, like with most things, there's a reasonable explanation." He stood in front of Tom then, his back straight and his hands clasped firmly behind his back. "Well…thank you, Mr. Branson," he said at last, a sincere smile on his face.

Tom straightened too, as if he were standing before a commanding officer, but he didn't return William's smile, in fact he felt rather confused.

Recognizing his confusion, William chuckled and explained himself. "Thank you for sharing your story with me, and thank you for answering my questions. I asked for your help in 'guiding you', and you have certainly done that."

Tom wasn't sure what this meant exactly. How had he helped William in "guiding him"?

"Are you ready then?" William asked, his expression turning a bit more serious.

Tom swallowed. "Ready?"

William nodded. "To move forward?"

_Move forward_. William had come to guide him to where he was to go next. And he had been standing in this place for…he wasn't sure how long exactly, but he had been waiting here, waiting for this very moment, and now the moment had come…and he was suddenly afraid.

"You have nothing to fear," William murmured, as if reading Tom's thoughts.

_But I do_, Tom thought. He looked at William, desperation filling his being as he reached out and gripped his friend's shoulder. "My family…Sybil…I…will I ever see them again?"

William gazed back at him, his expression unreadable. But his words did provide some comfort when after a pause, he whispered, "of course."

_Of course. _ What did that mean exactly, Tom wasn't sure. It could mean a great number of things—did the dead watch over the living? Or did William mean that someday, they would all be together again, as he had been reunited with William now? He didn't know, yet…the simple answer was enough to satisfy him. And what more could be done? He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, before nodding his head finally. "Aye," he whispered at last. "I'm ready."

William smiled at this and held his hand out for Tom to shake. "Good luck then, Mr. Branson."

Good luck? Tom's brow furrowed in question has he took William's offered hand—and then gasped as he felt something like a bolt of lightning fill his being and suddenly, he was sitting up, gasping and coughing and sputtering as if he had just surfaced above the water.

Unlike the foggy trench where he and William had been talking, everything here was bright…and noisy. His eyes squeezed shut and his ears ached at the sounds and sensations. There was even some strange smell filling his nostrils.

"Tom? TOM!" a voice cried out. "HE'S AWAKE! DOCTOR!? HE'S AWAKE!"

A rush of footsteps, and then suddenly someone was grabbing his wrist, pressing their cold fingertips against his pulse, while another hovered over him, pressing a cold stethoscope to his chest. He heard several voices speaking to him at once. "Pvt. Branson? Pvt. Branson?"

Tom shook his himself, willing the strength to shake all of them off and away from him. What was happening? What was going on? _WHERE WAS WILLIAM?_

"William?" he croaked, his voice hoarse and his throat dry. "WILLIAM!?"

"William?" a voice murmured over him. "That's a new one; the only word I ever heard out of him was 'Sybil'."

"Nurse, get some water!"

Tom blinked, trying to see despite the brightness, and then he felt the rim of a glass at his lips, and he instinctively parted them, welcoming the water's coolness to his aching throat, coughing a bit as it went down, hearing more voices telling him to "take it easy". When he finished, his vision became a little less blurry and finally…he began to make sense of the faces that surrounded him.

Only they were all strangers…save one.

"M-M-Marcus?" he stammered, and the boy grinned back at him.

"Oh you gave us a fright, Tom!" Marcus chuckled out of relief.

Tom frowned. "W-w-where…?"

"Pvt. Branson," the voice of a man who wore a stethoscope drew his attention away from Marcus. "I'm Maj. Anderson; I'm also the head surgeon here," he explained.

Here…looked very much like a hospital.

"Do you know where you are, Pvt. Branson?"

Tom swallowed and shook his head. This couldn't be heaven, and it didn't dare ask if it were the alternative.

"You're in a hospital not far from Calais," Maj. Anderson explained. "You were shot…do you remember being shot?"

He'd prefer not to remember it, but yes, he did. Tom nodded and Maj. Anderson continued. "It's remarkable, really…when you came to us, the wound looked very bad," he explained. "But in truth, it was a clean shot, well, clean in the sense that the bullet came straight out, and…amazingly, despite its location, didn't strike any vital muscles, organs, arteries…it's rather…miraculous."

At this Tom's head lifted.

_Miraculous_.

"We cleaned the wound and stitched you up…but you've been in a coma since before you arrived."

Tom's brow furrowed. "A coma?" he whispered. "How…how long?"

"Oh, not that long, less than forty-eight hours," Maj. Anderson explained with a dismissive wave.

"You missed Christmas," Marcus added, still sitting close by. "Today's Boxing Day."

Tom looked at Marcus with wide eyes. Only a day? But it felt like so much longer…

Had it all been a dream? Seeing William? Had he not been visited by the angel of his old friend? But then he remembered what Maj. Anderson had told him about his bullet wound.

_Miraculous._

…Maybe it wasn't a dream?

Tom looked at Marcus then, noticing how the younger soldier was a bit more bandaged up than himself. Marcus must have noticed, because he smiled and shook his head at Tom. "Oh, don't worry about me, it's not as bad as it looks. A few cracked ribs and a broken my wrist," he sighed, lifting his bandaged arm. "But it's much better than the alternative."

Maj. Anderson nodded his head. "Pvt. Simmons would surely have died if you hadn't helped him as you did, Pvt. Branson," the officer smiled at Marcus and then at Tom. "You should be commended for your bravery."

Tom felt his cheeks flush at the man's words. _I wasn't brave, I was just doing what was right, _he thought to himself, but he did offer a small smile and nodded his head at Maj. Anderson.

"Oh, and…there's one more thing," Maj. Anderson murmured, glancing at Marcus and then back at Tom, his brow furrowing as if he were troubled with something. "Pvt. Branson…when you received your medical evaluation, did the doctor find anything…unusual?"

Tom frowned. "Unusual?" he repeated. What did he mean? "No…no, he…he didn't say anything, simply told me to report to Richmond for training."

Maj. Anderson's frown deepened and he looked down at what looked to be some sort of file. "Most strange," he mumbled to himself, before lifting his eyes back to Tom. "Pvt. Branson…you shouldn't be here."

None of us should be here, Tom wanted to say, but he was too confused by the doctor's words to retort so. Without being asked, Maj. Anderson explained.

"Perhaps you are unaware, private, but you have a heart murmur."

Tom blinked. Had…had he just heard the man correctly?

"To be more specific," Maj. Anderson continued. "A mitral valve prolapse is causing a pansystolic murmur."

Tom's face paled. What…what did that mean?

"Is it dangerous?" Marcus asked, to which Tom was thankful because he honestly didn't think he had the voice to ask that very question.

Despite the seriousness of how it sounded, Maj. Anderson shook his head. "Only under high, intense levels of stress; most men who have such things are able to go on and live perfectly normal, long healthy lives. However, as I mentioned, under intense levels of stress and physical excursion, it could cause one to have a premature attack…which is why men who have such things are turned away from the army."

Tom sat up a little straighter, practically leaning forward at the mention of this. "What are you saying?" he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper, the hairs on the back of his neck standing to attention in anticipation of what he thought Maj. Anderson was about to tell him.

"I'm saying…" he looked at Tom and Tom wasn't sure what the emotion was on the doctor's face, but the man did lift his hand to salute, before finishing, "you are dismissed from his Majesty's army, private."

_Dismissed_.

He was finished.

He didn't have to come back.

"You've done a great service to your king and country, and to that we are eternally grateful," Maj. Anderson continued, but Tom was too shocked from the revelation to even think about retorting that it wasn't his king or country he had been serving. All he could think about was the future…and hurrying back so he could start it.

He threw the blanket that was covering his body off and tried to get up, but two nurses appeared and gently pushed him back down onto the bed. "Easy, private, your body is still healing from the coma!"

Tom gritted his teeth in frustration and looked at Maj. Anderson frantically. "When can I leave?" he asked. "How soon?"

"Soon enough," was Maj. Anderson's answer. "Just a few more days."

Tom groaned and flopped back onto the bed, which did earn a chuckle from those around him.

"Don't worry, Pvt. Branson," Maj. Anderson told him. "We'll have you back in Ireland by New Year's."

Tom looked at Maj. Anderson and shook his head. "Not Ireland, sir."

Maj. Anderson's brow furrowed. "You have someplace else to go?"

Tom simply nodded his head…while a knowing smile spread across his face.

* * *

><p><em>New Year's Day, 1918<em>  
><em>Downton Abbey<em>

Sybil lifted a hand to wipe her brow and push a few fallen strands of hair out of her eyes. "Nurse Crawley?" She lifted her head at Nurse Miriam's voice. "Sorry, I know you're busy—"

"I'm almost finished," Sybil told Nurse Miriam, smiling at the young woman as she tucked the end of a sheet under the mattress. "There, see? All done. And I finished the others too," she pointed at three other beds, now all fitted with clean sheets.

Nurse Miriam nodded her head in approval. "The post arrived…something came for you."

At this, Sybil's eyes widened. Was it…could it be…?

For three weeks she hadn't heard from Tom, but she refused to think something horrible had happened. _I would know; his heart so linked with mine, I would just _know_…_

She moved quickly, though tried not to look "too eager" as she entered the Hall, swallowing the nervous lump in her throat as her eyes met those of Matron Samuels, who was going through the post for the various officers who were convalescing at the house. "Ah, this telegram came for you, Nurse Crawley."

Sybil all but snatched the envelope from Matron Samuels' hand, earning a giggle from Nurse Miriam as she tore the paper open, her eyes scanning it quickly and…her heart sinking just a little.

Nurse Miriam must have noticed, because she asked, "Is something wrong? Not bad news, I hope?"

Sybil took a deep breath, willing the tears of disappointment to go away. "Oh no, no, everything's fine," she told her friend, forcing a smile. "It's from Thomas—Cpl. Barrow," Sybil told her. "His settled in London at the city hospital there."

"Oh, well…that's nice, isn't it? You and Cpl. Barrow are good friends."

Sybil smiled and nodded her head, though it was someone else whose name was similar to Thomas' that Sybil longed to hear from. "Yes, it is nice—it's good, very good," she murmured, smiling at Nurse Miriam and moving past her to go about her next task. _Keep busy; by keeping busy you can distract yourself from these thoughts. _Oh, if only it were that simple.

"Nurse Miriam, Nurse Crawley, go and see to Sgt. Jennings and Lt. Norris; I think they're ready to be brought back inside," Matron Samuels informed them, indicating to the two officers who were sitting in wheelchairs just outside.

Both Sybil and Nurse Miriam nodded their heads and went to go and do just that, Carson kindly holding the door open for them as they slipped outside. They made their way to the officers, Nurse Miriam telling them it was time to return to the house so they wouldn't catch cold…but paused when she noticed that Sybil wasn't paying attention. Instead…her eyes were fixed down the lane that led up to the house, at a figure that was walking towards them.

"Who's that?" Nurse Miriam asked, but Sybil didn't answer her. Instead, Sybil took a few steps forward, her hand rising to shield her eyes from the sun that was shining down on them.

He wasn't an officer, but he was a soldier, that much Sybil could tell from this distance. And…and there was something familiar about the way he walked…

"Nurse Crawley?" Nurse Miriam called out.

Sybil swallowed and shook her head. "Sorry, I…I just…I thought…" she looked back at the soldier and held her breath as he stopped moving, his eyes seeming to have spotted her.

_Could it be…?_

Her lips formed his name even before her mind had comprehended the possibility.

"…Tom?"

The soldier suddenly broke into a sprint.

"Nurse Crawley!" Nurse Miriam gasped as Sybil grabbed handfuls of her skirts and started to run down the lane towards the racing soldier, moving faster than she had ever run in her life. Her headscarf came loose, her hair coming free from the bun she had put it in that morning, and tears were blurring her vision, but still she ran, pushing harder and faster, only one goal in mind.

"TOM!" she screamed as she drew closer. "TOM!"

"SYBIL!"

A wild laugh escaped her lips at the sound of his voice, and she leapt towards him, feeling as if she could fly, believing she could!

Her body crashed into his, into the wonderful solid muscle she remembered, and a joyful sob burst from her throat as his arms enfolded her, trapping her and crushing her to him.

The force of their collision caused them to fall down, but neither seemed to notice. The only thing they were aware was that the other was here, alive, and in their arms. Both of them cried, showering the other with tears and kisses, managing to murmur words of love between sobs, and attracting quite an audience.

Nurse Miriam blushed, as did any other nurses who saw, but they also smiled, and a few even sighed dreamily at the romantic sight.

The officers who witnessed the reunion were torn by a sense of disappointment (apparently Nurse Crawley did have a beau in her life) and contented resignation (lucky bastard, to receive such a homecoming).

The Downton staff were, for the most part, shocked by this turn of events, though some (like the butler) were clearly horrified, while others (like Daisy) gasped, "I knew it!"

And then there were the Crawleys themselves…who's faces paled at the sight, and who stumbled to the door and front steps of the house as Sybil and Branson continued to weep and kiss and show their love for each other to all the world without fear or shame. Lady Edith's hand flew to her mouth, and Lady Mary kept glancing between her parents to gage their reaction to this. The Countess of Grantham honestly didn't know what to say as a million different thoughts and emotions flew through her head, and the Earl…well, no one was paler than he. And his stomach began to sink as he realized exactly what this meant. He glanced at his wife, and knew he had a great deal of explaining to do...

* * *

><p><em>Epilogue to follow soon!<em>


	10. Epilogue

_Here's the epilogue, answering a few of those questions left at the end of it all. Thanks again to everyone for reading! And again, thanks to **mimijag** for the prompt! Happy Holidays!_

* * *

><p>Epilogue<p>

_August, 1924  
>Seven Years Later…<em>

The boy stared at the plaque, his finger tracing the various names etched in copper. He paused when he reached one name in particular:

_PVT WILLIAM MASON_

He read the name several times, even murmured it out loud, and turned his head when he felt a hand touch his shoulder.

"Is that…?"

The man beside him nodded his head. "Aye," Tom answered, kneeling down until he was at his son's height. "That's the man you're named after."

Little William Branson (Billy, as he was typically called) looked at the name again, his fingers still running over the letters. "Why did you name me after him, Da?"

Tom smiled and put his arm around his son. "Well, William was a good friend of mine; we used to work together, and he and I would talk quite a bit."

"He wrote for a newspaper too?"

Tom shook his head. "No, William worked with me in service, at Downton Abbey."

Billy's eyes grew wide at the mention of the grand estate. "Mam's old house?"

Tom couldn't help but chuckle at that. "Aye, that's the place."

Billy chewed on his bottom lip. "It's scary; is it haunted?"

"No," he shook his head. "It's just a big place."

"Are you sure it isn't haunted?" Billy asked with some skepticism.

Tom's chuckle grew. "In the time I worked there, I never saw a ghost. And if you don't believe me, ask your mam."

"Ask me what?"

Tom and Billy turned then to look up at Sybil, who was trying to adjust a squirming two-year-old in her arms. Tom rose back to his feet and held his arms out, Sybil grateful for the gesture, and handed their daughter to him. She was dressed in her nurse's uniform, while he wore his army uniform. Today was a big day, as it marked the tenth anniversary of when the War began, as well as the completion of a special memorial, for all the men who served…and lost their lives, in the War.

"Mam, is Downton Abbey haunted?" Billy asked, looking up at his mother with big eyes.

Sybil smiled but quickly shook her head. "No, no ghosts," she assured the boy, before giving his forehead a kiss and smoothing his hair, which was a bit wild and unkempt, much like her own.

Billy still looked a little unsure. This would be his first night staying at the big house; he had visited it once before, but they had never stayed in it overnight. He much preferred their brownstone back in Dublin.

"I'll show you the garage where Mam always came to bother me," Tom teased, winking at his wife who rolled her eyes. This did seem to lift Billy's spirits a little, as the boy had developed Tom's talent and fondness for cars. "And tomorrow we'll take a drive to see Uncle Marcus," he promised, which really brought a smile to Billy's face. Last year, the Bransons had come back to Yorkshire for the first time since Tom and Sybil's marriage, to celebrate another wedding, between Marcus and his sweetheart, Judith. That was also the visit when Sybil decided it was time to accept the olive branch her father kept offering, and let her children finally see the place where their mother had come from…and the place that she had left so she could be with their father.

It wasn't easy, that first time back. Old memories, painful ones, quickly returned upon the sight of Downton's towers over the horizon. Memories of how Robert had purposefully been withholding Tom's letters from Sybil, and confiscating hers to him, so that they would each think the other had fallen out of love, (or worse; have Sybil believe Tom was dead), and thus break the deal he had once made with the former chauffeur. And a rift had certainly been created between her father and mother after Tom returned, Cora Crawley more upset that she had been left in the dark, than at the prospect of her daughter marrying a former servant. Mary had questioned why the "deal" had to be honored, but she was not aware to how deeply in love Sybil was with Tom, and soon held her tongue on the matter. By the end of the week, Tom and Sybil had left Downton and traveled to Ireland, where she met his family, lived with his mother while the banns were read, and by the end of the month, they were married at last. He found work through a cousin who owned a garage, and who eventually made him his partner. And by 1920, with Sybil's help and encouragement, he finally found a means to aid Ireland in her pursuit for freedom by writing for a Republican newspaper, just a month after Billy's birth.

It was Christmas of that year, when Tom and Sybil received their first letter from the Earl of Grantham. And every month that followed, he would write again and again. Sybil ignored the letters at first, but eventually, with Tom's gentle persuasion, she opened them and read her father's apologies, his pleas for forgiveness, saying first that her mother and sisters were devastated by her silence, until finally he admitted that he missed her, and wanted to make things right.

No, it hadn't been easy, for any of them. But perhaps, like Tom's "miraculous" recovery from his injury…or the miraculous discovery of his heart murmur…a fragile peace was being built.

Tom liked to think William was somehow behind that too.

"What about angels?"

Tom looked down at his son with surprise. "What did you say?"

"What about angels?" he repeated. "You said there are no ghosts…but are their angels at Downton Abbey?"

"Indeed there are," Sybil answered him. "And their names are Anna and Mrs. Hughes."

Tom chuckled at that, but was struck by Billy's question. Why had he asked that? Upon noticing her husband's confused expression, Sybil leaned in to explain, "He asked your mother just before we left Dublin what happened at a 'memorial service', and she said 'angels names are read'."

_"Tom…"_

Tom's head lifted at the whisper and turned to look over his shoulder…but no one was there.

"Tom? Darling, are you alright?"

Tom swallowed and nodded his head, before moving closer to Sybil and wrapping his right arm around her, while he held their daughter in his left. The wind moved over them and Tom followed the breeze with his eyes to a tree, which seemed to shake and rustle, letting the sun shine through the branches, reminding him in many ways of a cathedral window.

_"Tom…"_

He smiled, and while gazing at the tree, gave a bow of his head, knowing in his heart that his friend was there, watching over him and Sybil and their children in that moment, continuing to guide them as they took their next steps forward.

**THE END**


End file.
